


Emerald Isle

by Salchat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Survival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-11-22 15:14:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 32,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20876306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salchat/pseuds/Salchat
Summary: Sheppard's team is falling apart.  Rodney blames John for the death of a colleague and John has closed himself off from his team since his capture and torture at the hands of rebel Genii.  Stranded on a primitive planet, will John and Rodney be able to work together to survive?





	1. Blame

Dr Rodney McKay stepped through the gate and onto yet another new world with a weary sigh. They had emerged onto a rocky clifftop at the end of a promontory, the gate at right angles to the sea. He looked down across the broad curve of the bay below, noting the yellow-stained soil and plumes of smoke denoting volcanic activity, and then further into the distance where green lowlands met the misty blue hills. _Jurassic Park meets the Emerald Isle_, he thought, but didn't say. Nobody joked any more; things had gone too far for that.__  


He took out his laptop and wandered away from the gate, in search of a suitable rock to rest on while he worked. He could see Dr Gauthier, the geologist, eagerly taking samples and surveying the deep fissures in the clifftop, as if someone had cut straight into it with a giant saw. Further inland the rock gave way to short, springy turf, which sloped up to meet purple-flowered heather. Teyla stood amongst the heather, keeping watch, Ronon at the edge of the cliff, kept an eye out to seaward. Sheppard stood by the gate, P90 in hand, eyes alert as always, but expression guarded, inscrutable.  


Rodney sat down on a rock, opened his laptop and began studying the confusing readings from his surroundings. Some intermittent seismic activity; not surprising given the obviously volcanic area. He found the data scrolling in front of him blurring as he thought over the last few months; the events that had led to the breakdown of his team. He had sent his request for a transfer this morning; didn't know why he hadn't done it earlier.  


It began with the death of a scientist. Dr Alison Treadwell had returned with Atlantis to the Pegasus Galaxy after its sojourn on earth and quickly established herself as a valuable member of Dr McKay's department. Rodney himself came to value her and treat her with a good deal more courtesy than the rest of his scientists, due in part to the firm logic of her reasoning and whip-quick grasp of the ins and outs of any new technology that came her way, but mostly because when confronted with her head of department at his arrogant, self-important worst, she neither backed down, dissolved into tears, nor responded in kind; she simply acknowledged his point of view and then calmly restated her case, often with a small, firm-but-friendly smile. The rush of wind leaving Rodney's sails was almost tangible. The department became a much more peaceful environment; the other scientists regarded Alison as a kind of snake-charmer, her small but purposeful presence guaranteeing a quick resolution to any altercation with the mercurial head scientist.  


And then came the mission to PX8-584; and the Katirians with their misguided attempts at nuclear fusion; and the reactor, pushed to its limits and beyond by the impatience and arrogance of government officials. Rodney recalled the shocked faces when he told them their reactor was heading for meltdown, that they'd doomed themselves along with their people, that they'd built their facility in such a way that he couldn't access the circuits that might allow for a safe dispersal of power.  


Then Sheppard, studying the reactor plans had suggested that someone small might be able to force themselves into the inner workings of the reactor; somebody with the expertise to effect a miracle. Rodney remembered, for the thousandth time, the crushing inevitability of it all. The tiny crawl-space, through which even Dr Treadwell's petite frame would barely fit, the mounting urgency of the situation, the way Colonel Sheppard's eyes had met Alison's.  


"Can you do it?" he'd said. _Can you sacrifice yourself and save these people?_ he'd meant.__  


Her reply, determined, decisive: "Yes."  


He'd nodded, one quick nod, jaw tight, knowing what it meant.  


And then she was gone. And she'd done it; she'd diverted the power and the crisis, exposing herself in the process to radioactive steam and sprays of super-heated coolant. She had given her life for others. They couldn't even retrieve her body until the reactor cooled down; and when they did... Rodney couldn't recognise that thing as his colleague, his friend.  


McKay couldn't look at Sheppard on the way back to the gate, or later during the debrief. He'd deployed her like a tool that happened to be the right size, like a nanite to do a job nobody else would do. They should have left the Katirians to the consequences of their own foolish actions, departed swiftly through the gate, put the shield up and not given them another thought. But, no, Sheppard had to save the world, except this time it'd been someone else forced into the role of hero; someone else who'd had to pay the price.  


Teyla had tried to talk to Rodney, tried to persuade him that the Colonel had done the right thing, made the hard decision that had to be made, but he couldn't accept it. He kept seeing Dr Treadwell's face in his mind, her penetrating hazel eyes which always seemed to compel him to listen to her point of view. She had been Jennifer's friend too, but Jennifer didn't blame the Colonel. She had tried to mediate between them, but to no avail; one full of blame, the other full of guilt, neither would speak.  


So, when Rodney had been asked to spend a few months on earth trying to reassemble the weapons chair with some parts recently found by an SG team, he'd eagerly agreed. He needed to get away from Atlantis, from his memories, and from John Sheppard. He'd returned, nearly three months later, exhausted but self-satisfied, to find the mood in Atlantis still oppressive. Jennifer told him a mission had gone disastrously wrong. Rebel Genii had killed six of their marines, Sheppard had been captured, held for two weeks; tortured. Ladon Radim's men had found, rescued and returned him, but, according to Jennifer, he had refused to speak about his experiences except in a private debrief with Woolsey. He had been out of the infirmary for over two weeks when Rodney returned and Jennifer refused to give Rodney any details of Sheppard's injuries, but it had been bad. And now the man he'd once been so close to was unapproachable; doing his job, but sullen, closed-off.  


Rodney didn't know what he felt any more; it was too much, it had been too long. The easy familiarity was gone. And Sheppard wasn't talking to anyone.  


Rodney blinked himself out of his reverie and returned to his scrutiny of the data in front of him. This was an unusual world; mostly covered by water, according to the Ancient database, the land-mass being restricted to a handful of small islands, it nestled in the swirl of a huge asteroid belt. The mission was restricted, for now, to the immediate vicinity of the gate due to the difficulty of penetrating the vast swathe of asteroids, should rescue by the Daedalus become necessary; also due to the fact that this was Sheppard's first mission since Jennifer had cleared him to return to active duty.  


The island where the gate was installed had been surveyed by UAV and proved to be just thirty miles long by about ten miles at its widest point. The UAV signal had cut out several times during its flight and when regained showed a significant loss of altitude as if the vehicle had suddenly plummeted; Rodney suspected some kind of interference from unusual minerals within the rocky outcrops on the various hilltops. It certainly wasn't safe to bring a Jumper. The planet was probably peppered with asteroid craters beneath its placid ocean surface. Tidal waves were a risk. But rare minerals were also a likelihood and that was really why they were here.  


Rodney glanced up and noticed Sheppard had released his grip on his P90 and was alternately rubbing the fingers of one hand with the other as if they hurt. Sheppard saw him looking, their eyes met briefly and both turned hurriedly away.  


"Colonel Sheppard!" Teyla spoke suddenly into the silence.  


"Teyla?" he responded.  


"There is something wrong," she said, uncertainly. "This place... it is too silent. There should be seabirds, insects." She stopped and Rodney realised she was right. All he could hear was the blustering wind in his ears and the more distant wash of waves on the shore. Sheppard looked around as if reaching with his senses for any hint of danger.  


"Ronon, UAV," he said, his words curt, as was usual now. He began to dial the gate to check in with Atlantis and return the UAV, which had managed to return to land near the gate despite its erratic flight.  


Rodney felt a slight tremor as the gate began to activate. He looked at his screen. It was registering a small increase in seismic activity. The gate engaged with its usual swoosh, Sheppard spoke briefly to Atlantis and then he and Ronon began to manoeuvre the UAV back through the event horizon. There was a further, stronger tremor. Dr Gauthier stood up, rock sample in hand and looked around. Teyla moved swiftly towards the gate, calling, "Colonel Sheppard! John! This place is not safe!" Then there was a convulsion which knocked them all off their feet and a deafening crack as a fissure began to open in the rock beneath the gate. Rodney's laptop flew out of his hands, and he tried to reach it before it smashed but was flung further down the slope towards the cliff edge by the continuous shaking of the rock beneath him. Sheppard, scrambling to his feet yelled, "Go through!" and Teyla lurched upright, grabbed Dr Gauthier's arm and they stumbled through the gate. Ronon hesitated, seeing Sheppard head towards Rodney. "Ronon, go!" Sheppard ordered and Ronon backed reluctantly through the event horizon.  


Rodney, thwarted by the heaving of the rock beneath him, tried again to rise but was once more flung to the ground. He saw Sheppard coming towards him, then there was an ear-splittingly loud boom and the event horizon sputtered and died. The clifftop continued to shake. Sheppard couldn't keep upright and tumbled over next to Rodney. They clung to the rock beneath them, riding the bucking ground through surge after surge of tremors. At last the shaking seemed to lessen and they lay, breathless with shock, not trusting the rock enough to rise to their feet.  


Sheppard raised his head, slowly and and then gave a shout of startled dismay. Rodney looked up and then rapidly got onto his hands and knees, then knelt up, then stood, as if each change of position might alter the incontrovertible truth before him. Both the gate and the DHD were gone.


	2. Stranded

Rodney staggered forward, dazed.

"Stop, McKay!" came Sheppard's voice. "It's not safe!"

"I have to see! I have to... " Rodney swallowed, a feeling of nausea swept over him. "I have to see if I can fix it," he whispered.

"Let me go first then," said Sheppard, and Rodney, out of habit, waited while Sheppard moved gingerly forward, testing his weight on every step.

Sheppard stopped as near to the shattered edge of rock as he could safely get.

"What do you see?" called Rodney.

Sheppard waved him forward. "No closer than this," he warned.

Rodney crept over the uneven surface, stopped and looked down into the chasm. The DHD was clearly smashed. He could barely see the gate itself; the settling of the rock meant that it was trapped, wedged securely beneath great slabs of stone. What he could see was that at least one chevron was buckled, twisted out of place by the huge force exerted on it by the planet itself.

"We need to move," he heard Sheppard say, and he allowed himself to be led away, over the shattered clifftop, on to the short turf and away over the heather-clad crest of the headland.

It was not until they were threading their way down the other side, picking a path between the woody stems that reached their waists in places that Rodney came out of his daze, saying, "Wait! Where are we going? Shouldn't we stay near the gate?"  
"Need shelter," said Sheppard succinctly. "Sun's going down."

"Oh. But..." Rodney swallowed, realising how alone they were, how far from home. "Oh."

He followed Sheppard, who marched steadily on ahead, the back of his tac vest familiar from many an off-world hike. And yet now there was a barrier between them. It felt like he was following a cardboard cutout of a soldier. Someone who was there to protect, but that was all. An automaton who would march, keep watch, fight if necessary, but who wasn't really there as a person with feelings.

They trudged on, down a steep incline where rocky outcrops broke uncompromisingly through the dark soil, down where there was no longer a chill sea breeze. Sheppard didn't speak.

"Wait!" Rodney broke the silence suddenly. "There are people, aren't there? The UAV showed people?" No response. Rodney continued, his excited words tripping over one another: "There was a hill fort and a settlement on a tiny island off the west coast, primitive, probably about iron age stage of development. They could help us! We could stay with them til the Daedalus comes. Sheppard! It could be months, we need them."

A terse, "No," came from in front.

"Why not? Sheppard? They'll have food! They'll have shelter! They'll have food!" Rodney persisted, his excitement turning to frustration.

Sheppard stopped suddenly and Rodney nearly ran into him. He turned round and glared.

"Why not?" he said, eye-to-eye with Rodney. "You saw the UAV footage, yeah?"  
Rodney nodded.

"Got a good look, didn't we, yeah?" He continued to glare. "So that means they saw the UAV. So, primitive people, already spooked? We turn up - what do they do, McKay, worship us or sacrifice us? Which?" He jabbed Rodney in the chest to emphasize his last word.

"I don't know," Rodney said, quietly, stunned at Sheppard's outburst after so long a silence.

"You don't know," Sheppard paused. "So we stay out of an unpredictable situation." He spoke slowly, firmly. "We lie low. We survive. You," emphasized with another jab in the chest,"let me do my job of keeping you alive," and when he turned away and carried on walking, Rodney was almost certain he heard Sheppard continue, "for a change."

They stopped in the lee of an outcrop where the heather grew close up under the overhang of the rock. Sheppard cut some more branches of heather with his knife and wove them in to create more of a shelter. He directed Rodney to cut some fern-like plants to use as bedding.

The light was fading fast at this point and the air growing cold. Rodney suggested a fire, but received a short "No," from Sheppard and wasn't about to argue.

Sheppard said, "Get some sleep," and walked away further up the hill to keep watch.

Rodney sighed and pushed his way into their makeshift shelter. He took some sips of water from his much-depleted canteen, unwrapped a power bar and began to eat. When he had got up this morning, this was not how he'd envisaged his day panning- out. They were stranded, for an indefinite, but probably extended period of time, with few supplies and unknown dangers. Worse still, Rodney thought, they would have to rely on each other at a time when communication seemed impossible and trust had disappeared.

He finished the last of his power bar, took out and unfolded the emergency blanket from his tac vest, then lay down on the bed of ferns, pulling his jacket and blanket tightly round him and tried to sleep.

Rodney realised he felt like Bambi, hidden by his mother in the long grass. He pondered that thought for a moment, drowsily: Bambi's mother. Rodney's heart gave a sudden lurch. He pushed himself to his feet, thrust his head through the covering of heather, a wide-eyed look on his face that was indeed like a startled fawn. Sheppard was still there, a dark shape a little further up the hill, silhouetted against the starry sky. Still there. Not pursued by black-hearted hunters with guns. Rodney subsided back into the heather, pulling the loose branches around himself, tucking his knees up and folding his arms tight to conserve warmth. His heart rate slowed; he slept.

oOo

Rodney woke, shivering, to the silver-bright light of a full moon. He looked at his watch and realized he'd been asleep for over half the night. He sat up, trembling with cold; he could see his breath pluming out into the air. It must be even colder where Sheppard sat on the hillside. He shuffled out of the shelter backwards and stood up. The moonlight was incredibly bright and the sky a dazzling glitter of asteroids, filling the black in swirls and spirals like frost on a window pane. He looked up the hillside but there was no familiar silhouette.

"Sheppard?"

"I'm here." The voice, low, rough with cold, came from behind him.

He turned. Sheppard's face was deeply shadowed and Rodney thought its pallor was not just the effect of the moonlight.

"It's my turn to watch. You should have woken me."

"'M fine." But he headed toward the shelter and crawled in.

Rodney perched himself on the rocks above the shelter wearing his space blanket like a cape. It was too cold to sit still so he got up again to stand, hunched over, hands tucked under his armpits, head trying to sink down as far as it could into his upturned collar. He tried to distract himself by gazing at the awe-inspiring sky. Usually he regarded the night sky dispassionately, naming and describing the various heavenly bodies with scientific detachment. Whether it was because he knew himself to be stranded on this planet Rodney wasn't sure, but for some reason this night sky made him feel like a tiny, insignificant speck, dwarfed by the immensity of the universe. Rodney shivered both from cold and his uncomfortable thoughts.

Suddenly a scream rent the night air, a maddened, howling sound of tortured anguish. Rodney froze, hand on his holstered Beretta, expecting at any moment to feel the sharp bite of teeth or the cruel scratch of the claws of some dreadful beast. The scream came again. Sheppard. Rodney plunged down the hill and blundered his way into the shelter. Sheppard was writhing and moaning as if in agony, muttered curses coming from between gritted teeth, sweat rolling down his face and mixing with, surely they weren't tears squeezing out of the corners of his eyes? Rodney felt sick. Was this the result of the torture Sheppard had been subjected to? Was he still suffering through his ordeal each night in his dreams?

Rodney set aside his confusion over his feelings, set aside his rancour and blame and did what anyone would do for a fellow human being in extreme distress. He reached forward, put his arms around his friend and held him close, telling him again and again: "It's over, you're safe." Sheppard struggled at first, then grew still, then relaxed into deep sleep. Rodney sat for a while longer, shaken, his thoughts in turmoil yet knowing he'd done the right thing. Then he slowly set Sheppard down on the bed of ferns, crawled back out of the shelter and resumed his watch.

Through the long night Rodney sat, paced, stood flapping his arms to keep warm and all the while his thoughts turned to Sheppard. He thought back over the day; when the earthquake had begun, Sheppard had run toward Rodney, to protect him. When it was over Sheppard had taken the lead in checking the gate and Rodney had let him go first, trusting him to check the way was safe. He had led Rodney away and Rodney, even in a shocked daze, had followed, automatically. Rodney thought about Alison, the dreadful day on PX8-584 and gave a deep, shuddering sigh. He had turned all his grief into anger and directed it at his friend. At Sheppard, who would do anything to protect his team, who was eaten up with guilt whenever anyone under his protection gave their lives in the line of duty. He had heard that muttered "For a change," earlier and knew that Sheppard was referring not only to Alison and the six marines lost on the recent disastrous mission, but to all the other lives lost on his watch over the years. It was no wonder he had nightmares.

Well, here they were, stranded together, and unlike earlier, now Rodney felt grateful for the opportunity. It was time to repair the damage. Rodney smirked to himself; he had carried out a thorough diagnostic and now he was going to fix the situation. And he was good at fixing things.


	3. Survival

John woke and shifted, stiff with cold and pain. His ribs protested as he sat up, newly healed cracks still feeling tight and inflexible. His fingers were the worst though; the rebel Genii had broken some, dislocated others. It worried John like none of his other injuries had, that his trigger finger might be compromised. He struggled awkwardly out of the shelter and stood, stretching out the stiffness, massaging the fingers of each hand carefully. Rodney sat on top of the rocky outcrop, eating a power bar. He nodded at John's fingers.

"They're hurting you, aren't they?" he commented.

John looked at him, unused to concern. "Worse when it's cold," he said. He frowned, recalling the long, cold night; did he remember Rodney's voice in the dark? No, surely a dream.

"So!" Rodney continued, brightly. "Priorities for the day?"

"Fresh water," said John, shaking his canteen; nearly empty. "Shelter, food." He took out a power bar and began to unwrap it, clumsily, his fingers still not warmed up.

"Er... where do you think would be the best place for a shelter?" asked Rodney.

John wondered why Rodney was being so persistent, like he was determined to keep John talking.

"We need somewhere out of sight of that," he said, nodding toward a far distant hill. Thin trails of smoke could be seen rising from the summit and a faint outline of defensive earthworks distorted the smooth slope.

"The hillfort, full of primitive... primitives," said Rodney. "They must be able to see most of the south of the island."

"Good defensive position," agreed John, finishing the last of his power bar. "So we need somewhere over to the west, where the smaller hills in the range restrict the view."

He stuffed his wrapper in a pocket. "Let's go."

They continued down into the valley, the springy heather being replaced by low scrub and stunted trees. The sun became warmer as it climbed and the two men felt the cold stiffness of the night leave them. John pulled his aviators out of a pocket and put them on. Soon grass became interspersed with clumps of reeds and the ground became marshy underfoot.

John studied the ground as he walked. He had learnt a lot about tracking from Ronon and could tell the difference between signs left by animals and humans. There were some thin trails, but they all looked like they'd been made by animals; no broad paths, no twigs snapped off higher up. The vegetation was thick and it made for slow progress; in places it was difficult to force a path through the low bushes and John tried not to let branches snap back in Rodney's face.

They were both hot and scratched by the time the marshy dampness turned into a fully-fledged stream. They continued, following the stream which gradually became broader, the trees surrounding it taller, the walking easier as the canopy shut out light that would allow small plants to grow. They filled their canteens and, having dropped a water purification tablet in, were able to drink thirstily and then refill them.

John took off his aviators and hooked them down the front of his T-shirt. He squatted down in a muddy area, low to the water. Animals had come here to drink; small prints, nothing bigger than a badger. He wondered if there were wildcats, deer, even this world's equivalent of bears or wolves. No evidence so far of the higher order predators. No evidence of humans in this area either. Which begged the question: why not? Fresh water, game to hunt, land that could be cleared and planted and yet the people lived high on a hilltop or on an isolated island.

A splashing, spluttering sound; he looked up to see Rodney sluicing water all over his face and neck, cooling himself down. John wondered why Rodney seemed so relaxed. Yesterday he'd been shocked at the loss of the gate and before that... Before that, every time John's eyes met Rodney's he could tell that Rodney was seeing his friend, Dr Treadwell. Each time John saw the accusation in Rodney's eyes it triggered more of John's guilt until he had stopped looking. And then there were the six men he'd lost on the Genii mission; he'd gone over it in his head time after time, night after night. There must have been something he could have done differently, should have done differently. But it was always that way, had been since Afghanistan; all those people he'd failed to protect. He watched the water in front of him flow over the pebbles, flowing with the inevitability of death following life.

"Sheppard!" Rodney's voice broke into his reverie. He was standing on a flat rock, mid-stream, looking at John, no accusation in his eyes, only concern. "Should we carry on?"

John nodded, cleared his throat, "Um, yeah," he stood up, "I think we'll reach the shoreline soon."

They began walking downstream once more, sometimes on the riverbank, sometimes hopping from rock to rock in the stream. The dappled shade was pleasantly cool, the air moist and smelling of damp earth and growing things, the trickle and splash of the water soothing. Soon they realised they could hear the sea. The stream emerged from the treeline and a horseshoe-shaped bay was revealed, flanked by a low, gradually sloping headland on the left and a high headland on the right, sloping steeply up and ending in a sheer cliff, hundreds of feet high.

The beach before them was stony near the trees, above the tide-line. Then below a curved streak of dried brown seaweed and driftwood was finer shingle, becoming sand where the waves were lapping at the shore with a steady swishing sound almost like the sound of giant breaths.

John and Rodney stepped out of the trees, cautiously. There seemed to be no sign of human presence. No paths leading through the trees, no smell of cooking fires, no branches cut for firewood. John looked speculatively at the headland on the right. He could see shadows at its rocky base, some above the tide-line; could they be caves? He strode forward, the large stones making grating, crunching noises beneath his feet. Rodney followed, occasionally stumbling on the uneven surface. 

"What have you seen, Sheppard? Is this a good place? What do you think?" Rodney bombarded him with questions, determined to elicit a response, almost like an attention-seeking child.

"I think there's a cave," he said.

As they approached the rock face where the beach met the headland, they could see several caves formed within the contorted strata of the rock. Most were below the tide-line, but one was well above. It had a high entrance, rapidly falling to not much more than head-height and then went back for about three metres before the rocky ceiling sloped down to meet the sandy floor. 

"So, is this our ideal home?" joked Rodney. "The decor needs work!"

"The entrance is a bit exposed," said John. "The wind would blow in."

"Oh," said Rodney, disappointed.

"No, it'll do," continued John. "We can build a wall, here," he drew a line in the sand with the toe of his boot, "using the bigger stones off the beach."

"OK, build a wall!" said Rodney, determinedly optimistic. "We can do that!"

John looked at him in confusion. This was neither the complaining, sarcastic McKay he used to know, who would have thought building a wall a job for the marines and so totally beneath him, nor the McKay of recent months with his hard, accusing gaze. John shrugged. He stepped away from the cave, looking round the beach and the headlands to either side with an assessing eye.

"So, does one of us watch while the other builds?" asked Rodney. "Normally one of the team would keep watch, right?"

"Yes," said John, giving nothing away. "I need a better view," he said then, and, selecting a suitable area of the rocky cliff face, began to climb.

It was only about fifteen feet high at this point, and John was a good climber, but by the time he reached the top his sore fingers and ribs were feeling the strain. He stood, carefully, noting the small trails running over the short-cropped grass in between yellow-flowered gorse-like bushes, and wondering what this planet's rabbit equivalent looked, and more importantly, tasted like.

He could see over the whole of the beach and quite a good distance into the woodland area they had come through, with the line of the stream marked by a thinning of the trees. Again, there was no sign of human habitation. Had the full team been there he would have stationed Ronon or Teyla up here to keep watch as they worked. With just the two of them he would take a calculated risk. They would have to remain alert, they would have their Berettas in their thigh holsters permanently to hand, but they would need to work together on their wall and leave some time and energy for collecting suitable firewood and finding some food. In respect of food, John already had plans.

John looked down the cliff-face, thinking about his aching fingers and ribs. He sighed and began to climb down. When he reached the bottom he sank down onto his knees and bent over to ease his painful ribs, his hands held close to his body, protectively, fingers shaking. Rodney's head appeared out of the cave.

"Sheppard, I've started..." he began, but then stopped and ran over to John. "What happened? Did you fall?"

John shook his head.

"What, then? Tell me!"

"I'm fine," John said, slowly getting to his feet.

"Oh, yes, of course, you're fine!" said Rodney, angrily, and then paused and took a deep breath as if deliberately suppressing his frustration. "Look, I know about... I mean I know you were," he floundered, "well, what I mean is, you probably don't want to talk about it, but..."

"Tortured!" John ground out through clenched teeth. "The word is tortured and yes I was and no I don't want to talk about it!" and he strode off down to the waterline and stood, hunched over and trembling with his back firmly turned to his friend.

Behind him he heard Rodney berating himself sarcastically: "Oh, well handled, McKay, top marks for style, ten out of ten for subtlety!"


	4. Rebuilding

Rodney had been congratulating himself. His plan to rebuild his relationship with his friend had been beginning to work, he thought. He had tried to keep a positive attitude throughout the day, which was difficult because their walk through the wilderness had made him hot and uncomfortable. His feet had hurt and branches kept snapping back in his face, which he was sure Sheppard didn't mean to do, but anyway they did and it was annoying so that Rodney felt his patience had been tried pretty far. But he had remained positive. His plan to get Sheppard talking had met with limited success; his constant questioning had won some answers, but there had been one moment by the river where Sheppard had zoned out completely and Rodney had been worried. The expression on his face had been so bleak, so depressed. But it had renewed Rodney's resolution; this had gone on long enough. Only now he'd mishandled the situation completely and Sheppard was standing at the water's edge, his suppressed trauma showing in every line of his body. So much for direct confrontation, thought Rodney. Not that he'd been that direct. Anyway, he wasn't giving up. And there was work to do.

Rodney approached his friend obliquely, his boots scrunching on the shingle. He stood, a little way off.

"I cleared away the sand," he said, "down to the bedrock. I'm no mere engineer, but I thought, you know, a stable foundation would be good. I made it broad so it'll taper towards the top - should be stronger like that." He paused. No response. "So... I'm going to start gathering big, flat stones from the beach and maybe you could start building?" He waited.

"Yeah, sure," came the grunted response.

oOo

Rodney took off his tac vest, then his jacket and then put the vest back on. He spread out his jacket, regretfully, hoping that he wouldn't damage it too much; he liked this jacket much better than the old ones and was reasonably confident it made him look pretty cool. Anyway, it would make his current job easier. He placed three of the large stones inside it and tested the weight, picking it up by both arms and the hem. Not too heavy. He carried the stone-laden jacket over to the pile he'd made outside the cave and then made several more trips before he stopped to check on John's progress. He'd laid the broad foundation of the wall and was slowly setting more stones on top, choosing them carefully to fit together and checking each one for stability. He was obviously finding it difficult to manoeuvre the stones with his sore fingers and he moved stiffly whenever he twisted to pick up another. Rodney began helping, copying how John was building and they worked together in virtual silence until they'd run out of readily available stones.

"Time for a break," said Rodney, sitting down. He took out two power bars and handed one to John.

"What are we going to do for food?" he asked, worriedly. "I only have a few power bars left!"

John gave a very small smile, a shadow of his usual easy lop-sided grin, but a smile nevertheless. He reached into a pocket of his tac vest and drew out an old tobacco tin.

"Never had to use this before," he said. "Been carrying it for years."

He opened the tin and took out a coil of wire, or rather, as Rodney saw as they unwound, several lengths of wire, each a couple of feet long.

"For snares," said John, setting them aside.

Next he took out a metal rod attached to a smaller, flat piece of metal and set them down, commenting: "for fire-lighting."

Lastly, he opened a carefully-wrapped packet, to reveal four tiny fish-hooks and a small reel of fishing-line.

"You are such a Boy Scout," said Rodney. "Do you know how to use this stuff?"

"I've picked up a few things over the years," said John. "Ronon taught me quite a lot. And Teyla."

Rodney picked up one of the pieces of wire. "I'm not sure I like the idea of catching something small and fluffy with one of these."

"You'll eat it once it smells of barbecue," said Sheppard. "And we don't know they're fluffy. There were some trails up there," he gestured to the cliff top. "They look like rabbit trails." He twisted the end round into a loop and showed Rodney how it worked. "You have to set it on a trail where something'll run through."

"I'll go up there and do the snares," said Rodney.

John looked at him doubtfully.

"Oh, I'm not climbing up there," Rodney said, gesturing at the cliff. "I'll find another way. You can fish, there's no way I'm sitting still long enough for that."

oOo

Rodney was grumpy and out of breath by the time he'd found a way round through the edge of the forest and out onto the headland. He'd had to fight his way through thorny bushes which had scratched his arms and legs and now sweat was getting in the scratches and making them sting. He was also feeling a bit light-headed and knew he wasn't going to be able to last much longer on a limited diet of occasional power bars. The air was hot and still and Rodney stopped and put his hand up to shade his eyes. "Sunburn as well as everything else," he complained.

He could see the animal trails that John had noticed, threading in and out of large, sprawling prickly bushes with tiny yellow flowers. The flowers were giving off a heavy, sweet scent in the hot sun.  
"Cookies," remarked Rodney to himself. "Coconut cookies." His stomach grumbled plaintively. "How is that fair? What next? Trees that smell like chocolate cake?"

He looked down over the bay. At the end of a spit of rock sticking out into the sea, sat John. He had on just his T-shirt beneath his tac vest and was sitting with his pant legs rolled up and his feet in the water. He held a stick that he'd made into a basic fishing rod and Rodney could see he had already caught some fish. He was very still and Rodney hoped he was just thinking about fish rather than brooding over imagined crimes. Rodney noticed that both John's head and the rod were gradually drooping. Then suddenly they jerked quickly upright again and John scrubbed his face with one hand, then rubbed his hair making it stick up even more than usual.

"If baby wants an afternoon nap he shouldn't sit where he's likely to fall in the sea," commented Rodney. He shook his head. Better set the snares and then head back.

Rodney studied the narrow animal paths carefully and eventually chose three locations where there was a strong upright branch to fasten a snare. He wasn't sure how high to fix them as they hadn't actually seen any of the animals yet. John had said they probably came out mostly at dawn and twilight like rabbits. Rodney had never deliberately killed a wild animal before and wasn't sure how he felt about it. He was sure he was hungry, though, and his supply of power bars was very low. They've had a happy life and now they're going to make a happy meal, he convinced himself.

oOo

By the time Rodney had made his way back down to the beach John was sitting on a rock at the water's edge cleaning his fish.

"They're a bit like mackerel," he said, holding up one of the small, black and silvery fish for inspection.

He set it on a flat rock and efficiently scaled it, gutted it and then performed various complicated manoeuvres with his knife that resulted in a butterfly-shaped fish.

"Easier to cook this way," he said.

"Right, firewood," said Rodney, thinking how much he'd like to simply visit the mess hall on Atlantis.

"And refill the canteens," reminded John.

"And the canteens," said Rodney with an exaggerated long-suffering sigh.

The light was failing by the time the fire was lit and the fish, threaded on twigs skinned of their bark, was sizzling and spitting in the heat.

Rodney's stomach rumbled audibly and John's replied. 

"I think that's done," said John, carefully taking the fish out of the fire and handing one to Rodney. "Here, fish on a stick."

They ate eagerly, trying not to burn their fingers, making sure they found every tiny scrap of flesh and eating the crispy skin. Once the edge had been taken off Rodney's hunger his mind started to work. He knew it was time to say something.

"So, erm, I wanted to, well, what I mean is," Rodney paused, struggling to get the words out and John became still, the half-eaten fish in his hand forgotten. "I'm sorry!" Rodney blurted out and once it had been said, he found it easier to continue. "I'm sorry that I blamed you and that I didn't speak to you. About Alison, I mean. It wasn't your fault and then I left and I wasn't there when, you know," he waved a hand, vaguely, "all that happened. So... sorry," he finished. His eyes had fallen as he spoke and his mouth drooped unhappily. He looked up at John, tentatively. "So... are we good?"

John remained motionless, fish in hand. The hand fell slowly, his eyes became unfocussed, staring into the flames.

"You couldn't blame me more than I blamed myself," he said quietly.

"But it wasn't your fault, I realize that now!" insisted Rodney.

John shrugged, unconvinced. "There should have been another way."

"Yes," Rodney said, looking hard at his friend, "yes, there should. But there wasn't. And just because you had to make the decision doesn't make it your fault!"

John said nothing.

"Come on, Sheppard, you know I'm going to carry on until you say something!" Rodney persisted.

John sighed. "It wasn't my fault," he said quietly and not particularly convincingly.

"Well, that's something," said Rodney. "So...?"

John looked at him. "Yeah, we're good," he said and continued eating his fish.


	5. Memory

John woke and two things became immediately apparent: firstly there was a heavy arm draped over him and warmth at his back, and secondly that washing, both of clothes and themselves, was becoming an urgent priority. John carefully lifted the arm, returned it to its owner and sat up, trying not to wake Rodney. He felt like he'd slept pretty well considering his bed was a hard sandy floor boosted only by some thin, springy branches and dried grass and ferns that they'd gathered the evening before.

The fire had gone out and they'd eaten all the fish. He would catch some more. Maybe there'd be a different type hanging around the rocks this early in the morning. He collected his rod, and set off, first to the river bank for the muddy job of digging for bait. Worms in hand, he selected a place to fish from. The tide was high so he couldn't sit on yesterday's spit of rock. John took his carefully wound fishing line out of his tac vest. It wanted to tangle because it had been wound so small but John let it hang and untwist itself, the concave pebble he'd used as a weight spinning round. He checked the attachment of the hook, which seemed secure and impaled a couple of unfortunate worms.

As the line dropped in the water he thought about shellfish; whether they'd make good bait, whether he and Rodney could eat them. He thought about how they might be able to boil water without a readily available container; the water purification tablets wouldn't last forever. He thought about what plants they might be able to eat and the long process of testing whether they were safe, particularly in light of Rodney's allergies. He would start with the plants that looked similar to earth varieties; he'd spotted low-growing leaves with a garlic scent in the woods yesterday. He realised he was more content than he'd been for a long time, focussing on the business of survival.

John looked out at the dark blue-green sea, flat as a millpond in the bay this morning and just a few hints of white out beyond the sheltering headlands. The sun was rising over the land behind him, slowly turning the sky pale yellow with pink streaks of high cirrus cloud. It seemed like a peaceful island, John thought, just designed for someone who'd seen too much loss and bloodshed over too much of his life. John wondered again why there were no people on this part of the island. His instinct detected no danger - why were the only two settlements so well defended? Maybe they had a mutual feud going on.

He heard the crunch of shingle behind him and Rodney said, "I've got the fire going. Is there any breakfast to cook?"

John had caught three of the mackerel type fish and he showed Rodney how to scale, gut and butterfly them which involved a lot of wincing and squirming on Rodney's part.

They cooked and ate the fish and then John made his way up onto the headland to check the traps, going the long way round by the trail Rodney had blazed the day before. Two of the snares were empty and John reset them elsewhere. The third had caught an animal that was very like a rabbit or small hare. Had they evolved in parallel with earth rabbits or had the Ancients taken some of their bunny friends with them when they fled to earth? Either way it was easier just to call it a rabbit and leave it at that.

John picked up the rabbit, reset the snare and made his way back to the beach. Rodney had made some more progress on their wall, which was now about four feet high and would hopefully mean a less draughty night. John laid the rabbit on a flat rock near the sea and began to prepare it, Rodney watching at first with interest and then with discomfort and then turning away to look determinedly out to sea and ignore the various slicing, breaking and squelching sounds. John had done this job before. It was never particularly pleasant, but the end result was food and you had to focus on that. Suddenly though, his senses seemed to magnify; the snap of small bones was loud and shocking, the blood on his hands red and shiny and fresh. He began to shake and his stomach turned. He got up, staggered away and vomited into the sea and then sat down heavily on the sand, his bloody hands held out before him.

"Sheppard? John?" Rodney had hurried over and knelt beside him. "What's wrong?"

John said nothing, eyes closed, gritting his teeth, trying to bring his breathing under control; although he wasn't even sure if he wanted to slow his breathing, to calm down. Of what use was control when there was nothing you could do? When they kept on hurting you no matter what? He felt Rodney's hand on his shoulder and his friend's presence grounded him. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"They... they wouldn't stop," he said shakily. "They didn't want information, they just wanted me, because of what I represent, because of Atlantis." Rodney said nothing, but the hand remained on his shoulder, steadying. John shook himself, as if shaking off the memory. "I need to finish the rabbit."

"I could do it," offered Rodney, unconvincingly.

John looked at him. "I'll do it," he said, getting up. "It just crept up on me. The memory, I mean. I'm good." He finished preparing the meat and then set it to spit-roast over the fire. "It'll take a while to cook through," he said. "One of us will have to keep the fire going. I think we should take it in turns to wash. And wash our clothes."

"Yes, good idea," said Rodney, sniffing in John's direction pointedly.  
"Hey, you're no sweet-smelling bloom either, McKay!" said John.

oOo

John sat on a rock. He seemed to spend a lot of time sitting on rocks lately and he wondered, when they got back to Atlantis (when, not if), would it feel right sitting on the comfortable padded seats, or would he have to fly a Jumper over to the mainland and pick up a few rocks for his room? He had washed his clothes in the river, had a very invigorating swim and was currently sitting on the aforementioned rock clad in his still-damp boxers, trimming his beard with his knife. It wasn't easy, especially without a mirror, but he'd decided to keep it as short as he could and not go 'caveman style'. Even though they did actually live in a cave.

He caught the scent of cooking meat on the breeze and was wondering if the rabbit was nearly done when he saw Rodney crunching over the pebbles toward him. Rodney stopped abruptly, looking awkward and slightly queasy. John knew Rodney had seen the fresh pink scars decorating his body and he hoped Rodney wouldn't say anything; he'd had enough of that today.

"Er... it looked like it was charring on the outside but the middle wasn't done, so I raised the spit up a bit," Rodney said.

"OK, I'll come and have a look," said John. "I'm done now, you can do your laundry."

"Washing my clothes in a river," said Rodney with feigned enthusiasm. "The glamour of intergalactic travel."

John smiled, grateful for the humour, and went to tend the cooking fire.

oOo

Rodney chewed, swallowed, threw his bone into the fire and reached for another joint of rabbit.

"You know," he said, nibbling, "it's a bit tough, but tastes pretty good."

"It'd be better stewed, with some potatoes," said John.

"Dumplings!" responded Rodney, gesturing with his piece of meat. "And carrots... some herbs."

John looked at Rodney, sitting by their campfire, happily and enthusiastically consuming his meat. He looked fresh and annoyingly clean-shaven due to the tiny shaving kit he had secreted in his tac vest. John wondered how he'd had the space; he thought it was full of power bars and very little else. John knew their situation was still precarious. They had no way off the planet, no way of contacting Atlantis. They had found some food and shelter, which was good enough for now when it was early summer, but they wouldn't survive a winter without finding or building something more substantial and finding ways of preserving and storing food. But for now John was happier than he'd been in a long time. He and Rodney were working together, just like they always had. Rodney's eyes slid toward John's share of meat and his hand began to reach out. Yes, things were definitely back to normal.


	6. Attack

John strode along, the wind whipping his hair, enjoying the exercise, enjoying the temporary freedom from fishing, snaring rabbits and searching the forest for edible plants. Rodney had unwittingly given them a few days grace; setting off on the forest path one morning to check their traps he had suddenly heard something very large crashing through the undergrowth toward him, squealing and snorting as it came. His wide, horrified eyes had met the small, maddened eyes of something that looked very like a wild boar, bristled and tusked and ferociously angry. Rodney's combat training had fortunately kicked in and his hand had found its way to his Beretta even while the rest of him froze in fear. He had discharged all fifteen rounds into the beast before he was even aware he was firing. It was dead, but its furious momentum had carried it crashing into Rodney, barreling him over so that when John, alerted by the gunfire, came tearing along the path, P90 in hand, he saw Rodney's body on the ground beneath a huge, brown animal. John recalled how terrified he had been that Rodney was dead, but then he had heard frantic cries of: "Get it off me!" and had thankfully pulled his friend out from under the carcass.

It had been a challenge getting the large body back to the beach and even more of a challenge butchering it and making the best use of the meat. They had enjoyed feasting on it and had debated the different methods they might use to preserve some of the meat at least for a week or so. Rodney favoured soaking it in seawater and then hanging it up to dry. He thought it might result in a bacony effect. Anyway, they knew they didn't have the resources to preserve it for long and should eat as much of it as they could within a few days. John had decided to use his freedom from food-production to spend some time on reconnaissance of the surrounding area. Rodney had decided to carry on his experiments in wilderness charcuterie.

John had set out in the early light, heading south. He had climbed the gently sloping headland and looked back over the wooded valley. In the distance he could just see the hillfort, almost hidden behind the crest of an intervening hill. He guessed it was about ten or eleven klicks to the north east, maybe two and a half hours walk, depending on the terrain. He walked round the coast to the south for an hour or so. There was a series of small, rocky inlets and then a small island with a turbulent strait separating it from the mainland. Turning north again he made good time back to the bay, stopped for lunch with Rodney (more wild boar) and then decided to head further north.

He started on Rodney's forest path and then veered off, making a new trail through the woods and then up into the hills beyond. He climbed the first in the range, a gentle, easy climb of not more than eight hundred feet. Again he could see the hillfort, past the intervening peak. He could also see quite a way up the coast, but the curve of the land prevented him from seeing the island fort. He headed back, deciding to climb the steep northern headland. He didn't expect any more of the island to be revealed from that vantage point; it was there to be climbed and John liked climbing.

The sun was low by the time he reached the top of the headland. It plunged, a sheer drop down to the white peaks of waves breaking on half submerged rocks. Looking back over the land John could see plumes of steam rising from the far volcanic shore. They had felt no more tremors since the loss of the Stargate; the gate's activation must have triggered the instability. John sat down and leant against a rock. He took out his canteen and drank and then took out some of the ubiquitous wild boar meat and chewed. It was tough, but tasty. John felt his eyes grow heavy. He should head back before it got dark.

He woke with a start, his instinct for danger on full alert. He leapt up and stood, listening, looking around, out into the dusky twilight. For a moment he could see or hear nothing, but a faint creak as of wood scraping against wood drew his eyes to the sea where, through the gloom, he could see five, no six long, sleek ships with raised prows and sterns, like the Viking ships of Earth. They moved almost silently, like ghosts through the night and John knew with certainty that this was why the people of this island lived in well-defended settlements: raiders from the sea.

He watched as the ships moved north. Were they going to raid the island settlement? Then a movement drew his eyes down into the bay. There was a ship gliding up toward the beach! They'd seen the fire! It was nearly at the shore! John turned and ran headlong back the way he'd come, over the tussocky grass of the high clifftop, and steeply down, swerving between rocky outcrops, slipping and skidding on the short-nibbled patches of turf. He ran as fast as he ever had in his desperation to reach Rodney before it was too late. His booted feet pounded, his breath came in gasps, he reached the area where they'd set the snares and looked down over the beach. There were about thirty raiders, all tall and tough-looking with long, plaited beards and axes in their belts. They had lit torches and were searching the beach. John's eyes flicked here and there until he spotted one of the men, a limp form draped over his shoulder, heading towards the ship.

John knew his only chance was surprise. He would have to make as much noise as possible and rely on the fact that these people had never heard a P90 before. He scrambled down the cliff-face, heedless of scrapes and knocks to elbows and knees. Then he stood, beyond the range of the torches' light, took a deep breath and roared as loud as he could while firing the P90 in a wide arc above the heads of the raiders. The deafening rattle and flash of the discharge stopped them in their tracks. Some cried out in alarm, some ran towards the ship, others started towards John. He gave another burst over their heads, realised that the bolder men were not going to be easily deterred and fired a few single shots directly at them. One man went down, howling and holding his leg, another clutching his arm. The raider who was carrying Rodney dropped him and he lay where he fell, a small, huddled shape on the sand.

John fired above their heads again and as they turned and began running for their ship, taking their wounded comrades with them, he ran forward, roaring and firing in a continuous stream. One man, nearly at the ship, turned and taking an axe from his belt, threw it in John's direction. John felt a blow to his right shoulder, but carried on firing and roaring until the raiders had scrambled onto their ship and begun to row their way out of the bay. He sent a few bursts into the ship's hull so that they'd have plenty of evidence of the damage they'd receive if they returned.

John stood, his chest heaving in and out, his ears ringing from the gunfire. A dropped torch flickered on the sand next to him. By its light he could see Rodney, still motionless, face down on the sand. John staggered over and dropped to his knees by his friend. He turned Rodney over, supporting his head in his lap. There was blood all down the left side of Rodney's face and a large lump just below his hairline, but he was breathing. John checked him for other injuries but could find none.

John became aware that his arm was hurting and looked down, blinking in surprise at the blood soaking the sleeve of his jacket. He knew he had limited time to get Rodney to their cave before the adrenaline wore off and he felt his injury fully. He gripped Rodney under his arms and dragged him up the beach, his wound beginning to throb in time with his heart. Leaving Rodney in the recovery position, John went back and gathered three torches that had been abandoned on the beach. He added them to the fire and then sat down hurriedly as his head began to spin. He leant against the wall of the cave and fumbled in his tac vest for a pressure bandage, then clumsily tied it round his upper arm as tightly as he could. Hopefully it would stop the bleeding; he would clean and dress it properly later.

He looked at Rodney, who hadn't stirred. John took an antiseptic wipe from his first aid kit and slowly, painfully cleaned the blood away from the cut and from Rodney's face. He stuck two butterfly strips over the cut to close it. Rodney still hadn't moved. John knew he should clean and bandage his own wound properly. He would have to have a go at stitching it, which he wasn't looking forward to. His head spun again and the biting pain was making him feel sick. He would lie down, just for a while, next to Rodney.


	7. Rescue

They had lit the beacon that night. 

When the men of the Hill saw the raiders' ships come sailing out of the east in the early evening, they knew they must warn the Island. They set light to the tall stack of wood and it blazed bright and sparking into the night sky. Then they followed the ships' progress as far as they could see until they were obscured by the southern hills. But when the ships emerged off the west coast, barely to be seen in the failing light, there was one fewer. And when darkness fully cloaked the land there had come a strange rattling noise out of the south like nothing the Hill-dwellers had ever heard before. Had the ship landed with some new, fearsome weapon? Were they coming overland to attack the Hill? It appeared not. A sharp-eyed sentry spotted tiny pin-pricks of dwindling torchlight diminishing to nothing as the ship sailed away, back into the east. This warranted investigation, especially following the incident with the strange bird that had also come from the south. Accordingly, Chieftain Coll organised and led a small party of warriors that set out as soon as the sun breached the eastern horizon. They would head for Breck Bay, named for the small, mottled black and silver fish which were always plentiful in those waters.

They made good time and the air still held some of the chill of the night when they approached Breck Bay from the northeast, coming down off the heather-clad hills and entering the woodland. The first thing they noticed was a path, obviously made by men. Then they spotted a place where a kill had been made and dragged away. And there was the scent of woodsmoke on the air. Who were these people who lived by the shore in defiance of the raiders? Did they not know the risk they took? Had they not heard of the men, women and children who had been carried off by ship, disappearing into the east to who knew what fate? They must be brave warriors indeed.

They came to the end of the woodland and Chieftain Coll motioned to his men to be silent and remain hidden. It paid to be cautious with strangers; they could be unpredictable. Coll crept slowly forward, spear at the ready. He looked out from the shadow of the trees. A man was sitting on a rock on the beach. He wore only strangely designed leggings and very sturdy looking boots and he was shakily stitching a wound in his upper arm. It looked like an axe wound. Well, if he'd taken on a whole crew of raiders, he'd got off lightly.

The man was obviously a warrior, judging by the numerous scars on his body. He was slim, but well-muscled and looked like he could run all day and then fight a battle, at least if he didn't have an axe wound. He had short hair and no warrior's braids, but perhaps they weren't the custom where he came from. He had finished stitching his arm and was fastening a strange bandage over the wound, then he picked up a garment from the ground and struggled into it. Coll's men had gradually moved up around him and they shifted and nudged each other meaningfully: the short-sleeved garment was as black as the blackest night and the weave, even seen from this distance, was as fine as Coll had ever seen. Such fine cloth, dyed so dark! The man must be a high caste warrior indeed! Coll and his men watched, fascinated. Then they heard a voice calling in a strange tongue. Their eyes followed the warrior as he moved to a cave in the cliff and went inside. He must have a companion, possibly also wounded, if the weakness of the voice was any indication.

Coll gestured to his men to move further back among the trees and then to come in close as a group.

"I would parley with this warrior," he said. "What say you?" 

They nodded and said, "Aye, parley," and Nollan, who always had wise counsel said, "He could be a great ally against the raiders."

They crept to the treeline again. The man had returned and was trying to fashion a fine white piece of cloth into a sling for his arm. He was struggling and obviously in a lot of pain, his face pale and his eyes shadowed. He uttered something which sounded like a curse. Coll indicated to his men that he would go alone. He held his spear horizontally in front of him and hoped the strange warrior would recognise this as a sign of peace. Then he moved slowly out of the trees into the brightness of the sun. The strange warrior leapt to his feet, his left hand going awkwardly to a pouch on his right thigh and drawing out a small black implement, as if it were a weapon. Coll slowly stooped and laid his spear on the ground, then backed away, his hands outstretched to emphasize that he was unarmed. The warrior's arm dropped to his side, though he still held his weapon. He swayed slightly and spoke, but the words were unintelligible. Coll pointed to himself and said his name. The man copied, pointing to himself and saying something that sounded like it might have been a Chieftain's title. Then he said simply, "John." 

Coll wondered how to proceed. He really wanted to know about the raiders and what had happened. He looked around and then picked up a stick of driftwood. He moved toward a smooth patch of sand further down the beach. The warrior stepped back, warily, his hand tightening on his weapon. Coll smiled and gestured. He crouched down on the sand and drew a simple representation of one of the raiders' ships and some figures next to it. He looked questioningly at John. John knelt down on the sand. He reached out and Coll handed him the stick. He drew a figure and then pointed at himself, then he drew a couple of figures running towards the ship, looked at them thoughtfully and then drew in round screaming mouths and hair standing on end. Coll chuckled and John grinned back at him. Coll held out his hand for the stick and drew in a sword in the sand-John's hand. John shook his head and altered the drawing, but Coll couldn't make it out. John said something which sounded like "Peeneyentee," and smiled and nodded when Coll repeated the odd syllables.

At this point the voice called from the cave again and John called back. He said something to Coll and rose to his feet, but staggered and would have fallen if Coll hadn't caught him and lowered him to sit on the sand. Coll could feel the heat in John's skin and knew he needed help. Coll picked up the stick once more. He drew a curve in the shape of the Hill and sketched in the fortifications. He pointed at John, at the cave and at his picture. John shook his head, but Coll pointed again, also pointing at John's wounded arm. Coll hoped he would understand. He rose and returned to his spear, putting his hand on it and then moving back, palms facing up, trying to show his offer of friendship. He spoke to his warriors, telling them to come forward slowly and lay their spears on the ground as he had. John looked alarmed at the sight of the group but relaxed when they put their spears down and merely stood, the younger ones shifting from one foot to another and looking a bit embarrassed. Coll then went back to John, helped him up and gestured toward the cave. John nodded and they crossed the beach together, John calling to his companion and receiving a weak reply.

Coll was surprised when he entered the cave. The other man did not look like a warrior, and had even shorter hair than John with no beard at all, but he too wore the costly black clothing. He was lying down and looked pale and sick, his head bandaged. There were various items lying around the cave. John stooped and picked up one, saying the odd collection of syllables again. Suddenly he swayed and leant against the cave wall and his companion spoke to him worriedly. John slid down the wall and sat, shivering slightly. Coll acted decisively. He stepped outside and ordered his men to make two litters using their spears and capes. He called to the two young ones, Jed and Mal, to help him bring the two strangers outside. Coll knelt next to John's companion and introduced himself. The man replied, "Rodney," weakly and then closed his eyes tightly and put a hand to his head. Coll looked around the cave. He picked up a couple of discarded garments and John held out his hands for them and began to take his arm out of the sling to put them on. Coll helped him, though the fastenings were unfamiliar. Coll was fascinated by the outer garment that both men wore which was heavy and covered in odd pouches.

Coll reached out to pick up John's 'peeneyentee' for him, but John spoke a sharp word and Coll sat back and raised his hands as if in surrender; if this was like a great sword to John then he would not touch it. John fastened it onto his clothing somehow then sagged against the wall again. Jed and Mal helped the two strangers out of the cave and onto the two litters that had been quickly and efficiently put together. 

Coll looked at his men and spoke: "We will carry these new allies back to the Hill for they have won a great victory against the raiders and are deserving of our honour and our aid!" His men roared approvingly and raised their spears.

They set off for the Hill.


	8. The Hillfort

The swaying of the stretcher was making Rodney feel sick again and it was fortunate that his face going faintly green and his hand clapping over his mouth was understood by the men. They stopped and someone helped support him on his side while he was sick. Then they continued. The journey seemed endless to Rodney and he could do nothing but endure. The light hurt his eyes and made his headache worse. The voices of the men and the sound of their tramping feet made his headache worse too. In fact, every sensation he was experiencing made his head feel like it was splitting; it felt like he could feel the thoughts moving in his head. He tried not to think.

For a while his head had been higher than his feet and he could hear the rough, panting breaths of the men carrying him. Then a wooden creak and he was level and in shadow. Another creak, another change of direction and brightness again. He risked opening his eyes a slit. He could see the gate he had just passed through, the rise of the earthworks either side of the gate, surmounted by a wooden palisade. He was being carried through a village of small, round huts and then finally, mercifully, into a dark, smoky interior and set down on the blessedly stable ground. Somebody helped him sit, helped him over to a low cot and out of his clothes, leaving him in boxers and T-shirt. They offered him a drink, which he had a sip of; it tasted like weak beer, to Rodney's surprise. Then they offered him a strategically-placed pot, which would have been hugely embarrassing if his head hadn't hurt so very much. Then they covered him with a coarse woollen blanket and left him to sleep.

oOo

When Rodney woke he wasn't sure how much time had passed; enough for his headache to have reduced to manageable proportions at least. He opened his eyes, cautiously. The soft light of a glowing fire in the centre of the hut didn't hurt his eyes. There was a woman squatting by the fire, stirring something in a long-legged clay pot. She wore an ankle-length, roughly woven dress in a soft shade of green and her hair fell down her back in two long braids. There was no light coming in around the curtain which covered the door, so he guessed it was night-time. Rodney wondered if the contents of the pot was some kind of tasty stew, but was disappointed when the woman used her wooden spoon to lift out the soft, green contents and slop it onto a wooden board, over which was draped a piece of cloth. She folded the cloth over its contents and then carried the board over to the other side of the hut. Rodney's eyes followed her to where John lay, on a low cot the same as Rodney's. Even in the dim light Rodney could see the fever-flush on his cheeks and his restless movements. The woman folded back his blanket and removed a bandage from his shoulder and placed the new one over his wound. Rodney realised that these people's primitive methods might not be enough; plenty of people died of infection before modern medicine, even if the whole field of medicine wasn't entirely scientific, in his opinion. He sat up slowly, his head swimming. The woman turned to him and began speaking in soft, scolding tones, gesturing him to lie down again.

"No," he said, waving her supporting hands away. He spotted their tac vests lying by the wall and pointed to them. "Bring me that!" he said, hoping a commanding tone would work, even if she didn't understand his words. It did. She picked up the vest and held it out to him. Rodney took it and sorted through the pockets bringing out the first aid kit. He gestured to the woman, holding out his arm and trying to rise, his head spinning. She looked mutinous, but lent him the support of her arm across the hut, grumbling in an 'on your head be it' kind of way.

"Yes, yes, I know," he said grumpily, "no need to get what passes for underwear on this world in a knot!"

He sank down on the floor next to John and looked at his friend. His skin was hot and dry and he shifted continually in his sleep. Rodney touched John's good shoulder and shook him gently. "Sheppard! Wake up!" He shook him again. John's eyes opened the barest slit. "Look," he held up one of the pre-loaded antibiotic syringes from the medical kit, "I'm going to give you this and some Tylenol." John murmured something which might have been agreement. Rodney folded back the blanket, took out an antiseptic wipe and cleaned an area of John's thigh. He injected the contents of the syringe, wincing himself and hearing the woman's sharp intake of breath as he did so. John didn't stir. Then he made a drinking motion to the woman who brought a cup of the weak beer.

"Alcohol and medication," he shrugged, thinking of Jennifer's reaction.

Together they supported John and got him to swallow two Tylenol with the beer.

Then Rodney felt his strength ebbing and he allowed the woman to support him back to his own bed. As he lay down he tapped his chest and said, "Rodney," and looked at her questioningly. 

She pointed to herself and said what sounded like, "Breesha". He said, "Goodnight Breesha," and relaxed once more into sleep.

oOo

The second time Rodney woke there was daylight coming in round the curtain and he felt much better. There was a different woman tending the fire, younger, wearing a brown dress and with her hair loose. She too was stirring something in the pot and Rodney sincerely hoped it was food this time. She looked up, saw he was awake and smiled. She gestured over at John, who seemed to be sleeping peacefully and spoke some soft words. They sounded positive and Rodney hoped that meant John's condition had improved. Rodney went through the whole my name/your name thing again. Her name sounded like Vorra, although he wasn't sure how she would spell it. _In fact_, he thought, _she probably doesn't spell it at all._

Vorra ladled some food into a bowl and brought it over to Rodney who sat up eagerly and took the bowl. It proved to be a kind of porridge, but not made with oats. Rodney didn't care what it was made from; he was starving and it was filling. He rapidly ate it all and held out his bowl, hopefully, for more. Vorra had been eating from her own bowl, but put it down and refilled Rodney's with a laugh. She then added more water to the pot to make it thinner and continued stirring. She said something to Rodney, nodding her head in John's direction. It looked like he was getting his watered down.

Vorra left the hut for a few minutes and came back with a pile of clothes which she set down on the bed next to Rodney with a few words and a gesture in his direction. She also set a bucket on the floor near the door and spoke, looking a bit embarrassed. The bucket was rather stained and smelly and Rodney nodded his acknowledgement of its purpose. She left and he looked at the clothes she'd set out for him. A pale brown woolen tunic that looked like it would be about knee-length, some darker brown pants and a large plaid piece of fabric with a bronze pin in the corner; Rodney guessed he was supposed to wear that as a cape and tried to remember how the men wore theirs. Having availed himself of the bucket he changed his clothes. There was no underwear and the trousers were quite scratchy. He shifted uncomfortably. And this shirt-thing looked like a granny's nightdress. He spotted a belt; it looked better with the waist drawn in. Rodney was struggling with the cape when Vorra came back. She laughed behind her hand, straightened Rodney's clothes out a bit and helped him arrange the cape and pin it at his shoulder. She stepped back and nodded in satisfaction. Rodney turned around and swished the cape admiringly. If only there were a mirror, he thought.

Breesha came in then and looked Rodney over approvingly. She then gestured at John, still sleeping, and spoke, pointing to the food Vorra had prepared, and then to a bowl of warm water she'd brought in and some fresh bandages. Then she held back the door-curtain and ushered Rodney out. He went, happy to leave his friend in their hands.


	9. Recovery

John was in a bad mood. He'd been woken up and changed into clean bandages and clothes with businesslike efficiency and then fed some thin soupy stuff which had made him feel queasy. His arm was hurting a lot and yet the two women, Breesha and Vorra, were looking at him with satisfaction, as if he were a job well done. He scowled at them and they smiled back indulgently. Breesha busied herself over the hearth making some kind of tea while Vorra squatted next to her, chatting animatedly and sometimes throwing glances in John's direction. He wondered what she was saying and also why everyone squatted on the floor - hadn't they got round to inventing chairs yet? They didn't even have rocks, he thought, missing his usual perches on the beach. He sighed and shifted uncomfortably, holding his sore arm. Breesha looked at him and then went over to his tac vest, took out the medical kit and offered it to him, doubtfully. He took it and fished out the Tylenol but couldn't get them out of the pack with only one hand. Breesha took it from him and, considering she'd never held a blister pack in her life, popped out two pills with remarkable ease. She handed them to John and then gave him a cup of the usual light ale to wash them down. She pointed to the antibiotic syringes in the kit, but John shook his head.

"Rodney can do that," he said. John didn't think he could deal with the syringe with one hand and he wasn't letting Breesha have a go; she was looking altogether a bit too enthusiastic. She shrugged, disappointed, and put the kit away.

Vorra poured some of the tea into a cup and helped John sit up to drink it. It tasted of bitter herbs and he turned his head away after the first mouthful, but she spoke firmly and offered him the cup again until he'd drunk what she considered enough. She helped him lie back down again and he closed his eyes, breathing quickly as if he'd just walked up a flight of stairs, annoyed at his own weakness. The curtain moved aside and John opened his eyes to see Rodney come in. John looked up at him and smirked.

"Very nice, McKay," he said, "is that the latest in Iron Age style?"

Rodney pulled at his cape, twitching the folds into what he considered a more elegant fall.

"I think I carry it off rather well, actually," he said haughtily. "Anyway, Grandma," he said in his more usual jibing tone, "what a nice nightdress you have!"

"All the better to strangle you with when I get half a chance!" replied John grumpily.

The two women looked uncomfortable at the verbal back and forth not realising that, for John and Rodney, the sniping was their equivalent of expressions of concern. Each would have been worried if the other hadn't replied in kind.

"So," said Rodney, sitting down on his bed, "how's the arm?"

"Could be worse," said John, evasively. "How's the head?"

"In the interests of full disclosure," said Rodney, impatiently, "better then it was, but I still have a headache on and off and I'm going to take some Tylenol. Now, why don't you tell me how you really feel, because you look like crap?"

"OK," John replied angrily, attempting to raise himself on one elbow and failing miserably, "it hurts like a bitch and I think I still have a fever and can you please stick me with one of those antibiotic things? Thank you!"

"You're welcome!" Rodney returned, with equal irritation. He got the medical kit and, opening up the Tylenol, said accusingly, "When did you have more of these?"

"Just now," John responded sheepishly.

Rodney huffed, took two of the pills himself and then efficiently administered the antibiotic. "There's only one of those left, now," he said. "I hope it's enough."

"It'll have to be," John said tiredly.

At this point Breesha intervened, ushering Rodney over to his bed and sitting him down to check his head wound, while keeping up a running patter of words. They knew exactly what she was saying because they'd heard it all before from Jennifer Keller and Beckett before her; the gist was probably, "Stop bickering and leave each other alone." They smirked across the hut at each other, satisfied that they could annoy any medical attendant on any planet. John fell asleep on that thought.

oOo

He woke to the smell of cooking. Vorra was squatting next to the fire again, stirring the pot. A meaty smell drifted over and John's stomach gave a loud rumble. Vorra looked up and smiled, then rose gracefully from her squat to put her hand on his forehead, uttering a few pleased-sounding words which he took to mean his temperature was more normal. John felt more normal, although his arm twinged sharply when Vorra helped him into a more upright position, supported by a bundle of animal furs under his back, shoulders and head. He breathed slowly through gritted teeth until the pain subsided. John could see, round the edges of the door-curtain, that the light was failing. Looking round the hut at the absence of McKay, he said, "Where's Rodney?"

Vorra waved her hand toward the door and said something which John got no information from, other than: "Outside."

Vorra ladled some of the meaty stew into a cup and handed it to John. He thanked her, grateful that he wouldn't have to suffer the indignity of being spoon-fed. Rodney arrived, with impeccable timing, ready for the meal.

"What's it like out there?" John mumbled, through his mouthful of stew. He didn't remember their arrival at the hut and was uncomfortable at the thought of having no knowledge of his surroundings.

"Oh, your average Iron Age hill fort," said Rodney annoyingly, looking enthusiastically at the bowl of stew Vorra was ladling out for him. "Coll showed me round earlier."

He described the fort as he ate: "It has two defensive walls, made of earth and stone and a wooden palisade on top. There are watch towers, four I think, at intervals around it. You come in the outer ring through a gate on the south side, but then you have to walk between the walls round to the north to get in the inner gate. Out there," he waved at the door, "huts, big and small, some for people, some for animals, some in groups like they belong to one family. And a big central one for meetings. And a beacon, always ready to light. Coll showed me the island fort - you can see all the way down to the coast. That's what the beacon's for, to warn them if the raiders are coming." He paused, thinking if there was anything else he'd seen. "They farm the land on the surrounding slopes and there are some outlying huts - they don't all live in the fort all the time."

John closed his eyes, picturing it in his head; he really wanted to get out there and see it for himself.

"How many people live in the fort?" he asked.

"Um... maybe two-fifty, three hundred?" replied Rodney. "Difficult to tell, a lot of them are out farming and so on at any given time. I saw hunting parties coming and going too."

John had finished his stew, but shook his head when Vorra offered him more. She ladled more into Rodney's bowl without asking.

"This is pretty good," said Rodney, chewing a chunk of meat. "Oh, that porridge stuff? The grain is barley. They seem to use it for bread too. And beer."

"Yeah, what's that all about? Don't they drink water?"

Rodney shook his head. "No, must be because beer is safer. You'd have to be constantly boiling water. Everyone drinks the beer, even children."

John digested this information, thinking how much he wanted to get out and see it all for himself. He tried to raise his right arm and received a hot flash of pain in return which made the stew sit uneasily in his stomach. He closed his eyes; it would be a while before he was up to exploring the fort.


	10. Mending

John sat down on the wooden bench, his head spinning and his arm throbbing. He'd made it outside; it was an achievement, he tried to tell himself, even though it didn't feel like much. He was determined to see more of the fort today, but thought he'd just sit and catch his breath for a bit first. He lifted his face to the sun and closed his eyes, breathing in the fresh morning air, grateful to be out of the dim smokiness of the hut. Vorra had set out clothes for him that morning, similar to Rodney's and had insisted, despite his protests, in helping him into them. He was glad in the end that she had; he felt like he'd run a marathon, not just got dressed. He hoped he would soon begin to recover more quickly from the effects of the blood loss and fever.

He leant back against the wall of the hut and surveyed his surroundings; small round huts, walls made of wattle and daub and roofs thatched, some standing alone, some in clusters sharing walls with their neighbours. He could see inside one or two; they were like the hut he'd lain in for the past couple of days. Or was it three days? It was all a bit of a blur. Each hut seemed to have a central hearth, but there didn't seem to be any chimneys, or even holes in the roof. The hut did smell of smoke inside, but it wasn't choking. The smoke must seep out through the thatch. Anyway, it was obviously a handy design feature; John had noticed that meat and fish were hung from cross-beams in the rafters to preserve in the smoke. Maybe Rodney would get his bacon after all.

Breesha sat down next to him and set a basket of clothes on the ground; his and Rodney's clothes, he realised, cleaned of bloodstains and other assorted marks. Breesha picked up his t-shirt, stroking the fabric reverently. John smiled; fine-knit cotton jersey must seem like a miracle when you're used to weaving all your own clothes with wool and linen, he thought. Breesha indicated the long slash cutting through the seam of the shoulder and continuing down the sleeve. She unfolded a roll of cloth which contained her sewing kit and pointed to a selection of bone needles and skeins of thread. There was nothing fine or dark enough to match the t-shirt and the bone needles were functional but not nearly as slim as modern steel needles. Breesha's words sounded apologetic; she didn't want to ruin his fine clothes with poorly-matching repairs. She began taking out her finest needle and darkest thread. He put his hand on her arm. "Rodney!" he called, and waited for an answering, sharply irritable "What?" John looked at Breesha with a raised eyebrow and she rolled her eyes in response. Rodney was bored and was letting everyone know it, despite the language barrier. "Bring out the sewing kit from my vest," John called.

Rodney emerged, the small pouch in hand, grumbling, "What am I? Your personal servant?"

"Yes, if you can't think of anything better to do!" replied John, taking the kit. "Why don't you find something useful to do? There must be something you can help with."

"Well, in case you hadn't noticed, my skills are somewhat redundant in this technological desert," Rodney said. He looked at his watch and said with deep sarcasm, "Only, what... maybe two thousand years until the invention of the personal computer? That's if this lot ever get that far."

"Rodney," John interrupted the tirade. "Don't upset our friends, will you?" Breesha was shifting uncomfortably and looking worried. "She probably thinks you don't appreciate their hospitality."

"Oh." Rodney looked guilty. "Sorry, Breesha," he said. Then continued in a small voice, "I still don't have anything to do, though."

John looked around. He could see Rodney's point, but wished he had the strength to do anything. Even chopping wood or herding animals would be better then tottering around feeling like he was going to fall over every time he walked more than a few steps. He had an idea. "Why don't you have a look at their gates? See if you can design some kind of counterweight system to make them easier to move?"

Rodney looked doubtful. "Hmm... not much of an intellectual challenge... I suppose the logistics might be interesting..." He wandered off in the direction of the inner gate, muttering to himself.

John passed the sewing kit to Breesha and pointed to the zip tag, another thing he couldn't do with only one hand. Breesha worked it out and unzipped the kit, laying it flat like an open book. She gasped in surprised delight and called out to another woman who was walking past, a bucket of water in each hand. The woman stopped and set down her buckets and she and Breesha exclaimed and commented to John, pointing to the fine steel needles, the small, sharp scissors and the silky black thread. Soon a small crowd of women gathered, all marvelling over the contents of the kit.

John grinned at their enthusiasm until he realised that at least as many women were exclaiming and commenting over him as were admiring his sewing kit, especially the younger ones, some of them giggling and blushing shyly, but others with bold, admiring eyes, giving him the full 'once over'.

"Typical!" came a voice through the crowd. "I leave you alone for ten minutes and they're like moths to a candle flame. Kirk strikes again!"

"They're only admiring my sewing kit, Rodney!" said John, innocently.

"I bet they are," said Rodney, flapping his hands at the crowd. "Go on! Shoo!" he said. "Scientist at work here; give me some space!"

The women moved off, some smiling at John as they left and waving.

"So," began Rodney, "this is all I could find to write on." He held out a thin sheet of slate, already covered in sketched designs, scratched with a small shard of stone. He showed John his plans. "I came across a forge this morning, so I'll need to get the smith to make what I need, which is mainly thick chain and the counterweights themselves, of course."

"You need to show it to Coll first, McKay," warned John. "Don't get carried away before he agrees."

"Oh, he'll agree!" Rodney stated confidently. "How could he not when he sees the efficiency of my design? I'm going to find him now!" He bustled off, importantly.

Breesha had started work on sewing up the rent in John's t-shirt. She smiled to herself as she set her stitches, such delicate work that she'd never been able to do before; the repair would be practically invisible.

John stretched out his long legs and closed his eyes. It was pleasant sitting in the sun and even more pleasant not to feel under threat of some kind. These people were friendly and had looked after Rodney and himself very well. Their kindness had gone some way toward repairing the damage the rebel Genii had done. John felt more distanced from his capture and torture; he wouldn't forget it, but he no longer felt he had to work hard to prevent his thoughts drifting down dark paths.

Breesha made a dissatisfied noise and he opened his eyes to see her examining the cut in his leather jacket. She held a needle threaded with the black cotton in her hand and when she caught John's eye she waved the needle and thread and spoke doubtfully.

"No," he said, "I see what you mean. I don't think it's going to look great no matter what you do." He made the mistake of shrugging his shoulders then and sharply became aware that the pain in his arm had been building slowly for the past half hour or so and he'd just made it worse. He sat up away from the hut wall and cradled his arm in its sling. He was also tired again, a dragging, unnatural feeling as if his head were too heavy to support. Breesha set down her sewing and solicitously held out her arm and guided John's shaky steps into the hut and over to the cot. She unpinned his cloak and helped him to lie down, patting him on his good shoulder and murmuring soft words. Then she left him to sleep.

oOo

There was meat for dinner that night. Proper meat, cooked on a heavy iron griddle, some small steaks and some liver. Breesha seemed determined that John would eat at least his share, if not more, due to his lost blood, he guessed. Rodney looked mutinous when he realised John's portion was bigger than his own, but was pacified by the solid barley bread he was given and even happier when Vorra entered with a small pot and drizzled his bread with honey. John guessed they were being given food that the two women would rarely get to eat. He set down his wooden plate and reaching over to Breesha, took her hand and looked into her eyes. "Thank you," he said, simply. She smiled back, nodding her head in acknowledgement.

"We need to do something to help these people," John said, chewing on his steak. "They've done so much for us."

"I'm working on their gate," said Rodney, honey dripping down his chin. "I think I've bonded with the smith now," he said thoughtfully. "Name's Edda, or Eddie or something. Anyway, there were a couple of ... moments. He has some fierce-looking tools in that forge! But I think we've reached an understanding, now he realises the true genius of my ideas."

"So, you think he won't actually hit you with a hammer," said John, grinning.

"No, we've made it through the most trying stage of our relationship. He recognises his intellectual superior!"

"Right," John drawled slowly. "Well, anyway, I think we need to do something more. Something that will make a difference to their lives; it isn't like we don't have time."

"I will apply my intellect to the matter," promised Rodney grandly. He paused and said, tentatively, "they will come, won't they? The Daedalus, I mean."

"They'll come, Rodney," said John firmly.


	11. Planning

Rodney came in from a morning working with, or more accurately harassing the smith to find John sitting on his bed awkwardly cleaning his stripped down P90. His sling dangled from his neck and there was a furrow of pain between his eyebrows.

"Should you be doing that?" asked Rodney.

"Yes," said John, shortly. "I have to start using it sometime. Keller would have me doing some kind of PT by now."

"I suppose," Rodney said, doubtfully.

John began reassembling the weapon. "Good morning at the forge?" he asked.

"I think so, yes," said Rodney, smugly. "Progress is being made!"

"When will it be finished?"

"Hmm... day after tomorrow?" said Rodney. "If Eddie keeps up his current rate of work. Why?"

"Because I want to go and take a look at the island fort," said John.

"What, walk there?" Rodney said with disbelief. "You wouldn't make it out the gate!"

"I walked to the gate and back this morning," John replied. "And I want you to give me the guided tour this afternoon. And show me where Coll hangs out." He put down the reassembled weapon and slid his arm back into the sling with a grateful sigh.

"Coll's usually in the big hut, presiding over chieftainly business and so on. Why do you want to see him?"

"I have an idea. About something we could do," said John.

"Oh. What kind of idea?" asked Rodney, looking at John's expression; it was the innocent one that usually meant trouble.

"You brought some C4, right?" asked John.

"Yes, a couple of blocks. I didn't replace all my standard kit with power bars. What do you need it for?"

"I thought we could blow up a couple of ships," said John.

oOo

Later that day Rodney and John stood on one of the watchtowers looking down over the rolling, green hills toward the sea. Just off the coast at what, Rodney guessed, must be the widest point of the main island, was a tiny islet. It was too distant to see any detail, but there were small fishing boats in the surrounding waters and the adjacent land was obviously farmed.

"I wonder how much damage the raiders caused?" said John, squinting against the sun.

"That's a tricky question to ask without the use of actual words!" said Rodney.

"Have you got your slate with you?" asked John.

Rodney lifted the edge of his cape, revealing the slate tucked into his belt. It was a poor substitute for his laptop or a datapad, but Rodney had taken to carrying it around, and in a small leather pouch he had couple of bits of stone for writing with and a cloth to wipe the slate clean. The two men made their way to the meeting house, which was very like their small hut, just on a larger scale. There was a central hearth, and on the far side sat Coll in a large, wooden, throne-like chair. Breesha sat next to him on a stool and Vorra sat at her feet. Both women held small wooden circular looms with which they were weaving lengths of cord. Two men were standing in front of Coll, both trying to make themselves heard. John turned to Rodney and whispered, "Breesha's Coll's wife and Vorra's his daughter! Did you know that?"

Rodney shrugged. "I suppose. Hadn't really thought about it."

Breesha looked up from her work and seeing them, spoke to Coll, gesturing in their direction. Coll uttered some kind of summary judgement on the matter in front of him and the two men involved left, looking more or less satisfied. Coll waved John and Rodney forward, smiling and Breesha got up and gestured insistently to John to take her stool. Rodney thought he'd refuse, but John sat down rather heavily, looking like he wouldn't have been able to stay on his feet much longer. Breesha looked at him with a sharp, assessing eye; Rodney wondered if she'd send him home to bed, but she merely spoke to Vorra and the two women moved away. Rodney lowered himself onto Vorra's vacated animal skin.

"Can I have your slate, Rodney?" asked John, taking his arm out of its sling.

Rodney took the slate and pouch out of his belt and handed them to John He watched as John scratched out a rough picture of the islet with what fortifications he guessed it might have, and a couple of raiders' ships next to it. He attempted to add in the coast and put in a couple of stick figures and stick animals. He passed the slate to Coll and pointed to the ships then to the fort then to the farmland, saying, "How do they attack? The fort? The farms?"

Coll looked doubtful, as if he wasn't sure what John was asking, but he took the slate and pointed to the farmland. He wiped out the stick figures and drew them in on one of the ships, then he sketched in a couple of huts on the farm area then scribbled over them.

"So, they mainly raid the outlying farms," said John, "carry off anyone and anything they can and, I'm guessing, burn the rest." John took the slate again and pointed to the island fort. He drew in some tiny figures holding spears and pointed to the ships. "Do they attack the fort?"

Coll held up one finger, then another.

"I guess that means they have, a couple of times, but they usually target the mainland," interpreted John.

He tapped the stone against the slate a couple of times, thoughtfully. Then he drew a circle above the fort in his picture, pointed to the ships, then to the circle and then to the sky. Coll merely looked confused. Rodney was confused too. John wiped away half the circle and drew it back in, making the circle narrower and pointing to the sky again. He repeated this until his circle had become a crescent, whereupon both Coll and Rodney made noises of comprehension. Coll took the slate from John and drew in the circle of the full moon again. Then he drew another, next to it and another and another and pointed to each of them with a look that said, "perhaps."

"Not very helpful," said Rodney.

"Well, I guess he means they'll come back sometime in the next few months at the full moon," said John. "They probably don't sail in the winter." John took the slate once more. He pointed to himself and Rodney and scrubbed out the ships, hard, the writing stone squeaking painfully against the slate.

Coll looked at him, puzzled. John took Rodney's piece of cloth and wiped out all their drawings. He then sketched in his P90 and drew a small block next to it. He pointed to his drawings, but before he could say anything Coll tapped the slate and said "Peeneyentee," and John smiled and nodded. Then he grinned and pointed to the little block. "C4," he said. Coll repeated the sounds, questioningly: "Seefor?"

John nodded mischievously. Then he tapped the sketch of the P90 and gestured toward the door of the hut saying, "Let me show you what it does," and began to get up. Breesha intervened at that point, putting her hand on John's good shoulder, preventing him from rising, speaking to her husband and gesturing towards Vorra, who was approaching with a tray of refreshments. Beer, bread and cheese, observed Rodney, as Vorra set the tray down in front of him. Breesha took the slate from John and passed it to Rodney. She carefully held the sling for John to put his arm back into. Coll shot John a look which clearly said: "You're in trouble now." John smiled back, ruefully.

Rodney was making serious in-roads on the bread and cheese. "I think this might be goats' cheese," he said with his mouth full. "Haven't seen any goats, though. Do you think there's any honey left?"

"Slow down, McKay, leave some for the rest of us." John set his cup down and Vorra passed him a piece of bread with a slice of cheese on top.

Coll and Breesha were having a rather heated discussion in which, on Coll's side, the word ,"Peeneyentee," was featuring rather prominently. Rodney thought it was rather like watching John trying to persuade Woolsey to let him go on some wild goose chase mission after a potential new weapon. Only Breesha was a more formidable opponent than Woolsey. She wasn't giving in, gesturing at John and shaking her head. Rodney looked at John, slumped on the stool, face pale, nibbling his bread unenthusiastically. She was right. This was the first day John had walked any distance at all. They wouldn't be allowed out to play with their toys today.


	12. Demonstration

The following morning John sent a grumbling Rodney out to find a suitable target for him to shoot. It was a grey, drizzly day and Rodney returned, damp and complaining an hour later, having persuaded Vorra to part with a rutabaga type vegetable that she was about to cut up into a stew. He had made his way out through the gates and down the hill to perch his rutabaga on a rock that he estimated was about two hundred metres from the outer rampart.

"You'll just have to hope it's still there later," he said, crossly, holding up his damp cape in front of the fire. "Something'll probably come along and eat it. And you shouldn't be shooting, anyway. The recoil on those things is fierce."

"Can you hit a target at two hundred metres?" John asked, pointedly.

"You know very well I couldn't hit a barn door at two hundred metres, Sheppard!" replied Rodney. "I'm only thinking of you - Breesha's going to tie you to your bed!"

The door curtain was moved aside and Coll entered, followed by Breesha and Vorra. The women squatted by the fire, as usual, adding sticks to it and poking it into more of a blaze as if to show John and Rodney how they should have been tending it. John gestured to Coll to sit on the bed, with the P90 between them. Coll looked excited, as if he were about to receive a treat. John took his arm out of its sling (Breesha narrowed her eyes at him) picked up the weapon and took out the magazine, showing Coll the rounds and then mimed them flying through the air. Rodney smirked at John's sound effects. Coll looked interested. Then he put the magazine back and showed Coll the four others he'd had in his tac vest, pointing to the rounds and saying, "That's all there is." He wanted to get across that it wasn't a magic weapon that would last forever, but a finite resource. Coll nodded, but John wasn't convinced he'd understood.

"OK," said John standing up, P90 in his hands. It felt strange holding it wearing his Iron Age clothes. "I think we're ready for our demo."

He stepped out into the dreary day and everyone followed. The women put their cloaks over their heads and John could hear Breesha grumbling under her breath and Vorra agreeing. They made their way out through the inner gate and along the gap between the ramparts to one of the watchtowers. At the top several of Coll's warriors were lounging against the walls. They straightened up when they saw their chieftain and nudged each other, grinning when they saw John's weapon. John wondered what they expected to happen. He saw the men were carrying their spears and thought he'd offer them a challenge. Going to the outer wall of the tower, John peered down the hill through the fine rain. He could see Rodney's target, sitting on its rock. So could Vorra, who pointed and spoke crossly, glaring at Rodney. John pointed to one of their spears and then to the rutabaga on its perch. The men all snorted with laughter - nobody could hit that. John gave another go ahead gesture, saying, "C'mon, have a go, just for comparison!"

One of the warriors shrugged, nodded, then waved everyone back to create some space. He raised his spear, drew it back over his shoulder and threw in a smooth, powerful motion. Coll and the other warriors gave a rumble of appreciation, clapping the man on the back. It was obviously a good throw, but John could see that it had landed less than halfway to his target. John prepared to fire. He widened his stance, made sure he was stable and began to raise the weapon to his shoulder.

"Wait a minute!" Rodney stopped him and took the folds of John's cape, rearranging them and bunching them up to protect his injured shoulder. "Go on, then, get into trouble!" he said.

"C'mon, McKay, you know this'll be fun," grinned John.

Rodney moved away and put his hands over his ears, motioning to the other observers to do the same. John raised the P90, blinking the rain out of his eyes, aimed, and let loose a short burst. The shockingly loud rattle ripped into the still morning air, the weapon slammed back into his shoulder, as expected, and the rutabaga exploded into vegetably fragments. Coll and the warriors all roared in amazement and then cheered, clapping John on the back, heedless of his pain. Vorra had let out a surprised shriek when the gun discharged and then dissolved into laughter, pointing down the hill to the scattered remains; obviously a vegetable well-spent, in her opinion. Breesha tossed her head in disapproval; she could see the tenseness of John's stance and the furrow between his brows, even though he was grinning in delight at their reaction. Coll reached out, asking if he could have a go.

"I'll deal with this," said Rodney, taking charge. "Put your arm back in the sling, Sheppard."

Rodney took the P90, made sure the safety was on and then held it up for Coll and helped him get a proper grip. He bunched Coll's cape up on his shoulder as he'd done for John, then he mimed squeezing his trigger finger very gently. He made sure Coll was pointing the weapon out at the empty hillside and that everyone else was out of the way, flicked off the safety and then waved: go ahead. Coll squeezed the trigger, and the harsh sound of the weapon's discharge shattered the stillness once more. Coll was breathless with surprise at the shock of the noise and the recoil. He rubbed his shoulder and looked at John with concern. John smiled back and shrugged, lop-sidedly.

"Seefor?" asked Coll curiously.

Breesha intervened, clapping her hands in an 'enough's enough' manner. She spoke firmly and obviously so very much to the point that the warriors swiftly disappeared about their business, her husband was dispatched about his duties and Rodney, fearing she would start on him next, took himself off to the forge, taking the P90 with him. John sidled towards the steps, hoping to make a break for it, but Breesha turned to him, hands on hips, about to let loose a furious tirade. She looked at him, standing in the rain, his hair and cape drooping down damply, obviously in pain, but wearing a sheepish half-smile. She sighed, shook her head and just pointed to the stairs and John meekly allowed himself to be herded back to the hut, Breesha admonishing him all the way, her words unintelligible, but almost certainly including the phrase, "Haven't got the sense you were born with," amongst others.

Back at the hut she made him sit on the bed and then ruthlessly stripped off his cape and tunic and removed his bandages. His half-healed wound looked red and sore, but it hadn't opened again. Breesha rebandaged it, still scolding and Vorra, who was building up the fire, met John's eyes and smirked as if she had been on the receiving end of her mother's wrath many times and was amused to see someone else targeted. Breesha pointed to the bed with a look that said, "Move from there at your peril!"

John put his tunic back on, his arm twinging painfully. He lay down on the bed. Breesha was right. He shouldn't have done it. But it was worth it, he thought, smirking. The look on Coll's face when the rutabaga exploded had been priceless! Breesha took his wet cape and flung it over one of the rafters to dry. Behind her mother's back, Vorra caught John's eye and mimed an exploding rutabaga, grinning. Yes, it had definitely been worth it.

oOo

Rodney peered round the edge of the curtain.

"Has she gone?" he asked, nervously.

John, who had been dozing on the bed, yawned and rubbed his eyes. "Breesha? Yeah, she went ages ago."

Rodney came fully into the hut, still carrying the P90. He pushed it under John's bed and looked at John strangely.

"What?" John asked.

"Just looking for the ropes," said Rodney. "Where she tied you to the bed."

"Oh, ha ha," said John humourlessly.

"Seriously, that woman is scary. Maybe we should invite her back to Atlantis," said Rodney, thoughtfully. "She could mount a one woman campaign against the Wraith."

"Leave her alone, Rodney," said John. "Breesha's OK."

"Oh, let me guess," Rodney taunted, "You gave her the mischievous little boy look and she fell for it."

"At least I didn't slink away, tail between my legs!" replied John.

Before Rodney could riposte, the curtain twitched aside once more and Coll entered, looking nervously over his shoulder.

"See?" said Rodney. "He's meant to be the big important chieftain and he's afraid of her!"

Coll smiled at them and sat down on Rodney's bed. He gestured to John's arm enquiringly. 

"Yes, good point," said Rodney, "tell us what damage you've done."

John put his left hand over his right shoulder and flexed it experimentally. He winced. "It's stiffened up quite a bit," he admitted. 

Coll looked around the hut. "Seefor?" he said enquiringly.

"I'll show him," said Rodney. He took a block from his tac vest, throwing John the pack of Tylenol while he was at it, and sat on the bed next to Coll. Coll looked at the block in bewilderment.

"OK," said Rodney. "I'll keep it simple. P90?"

Coll nodded. Rodney made a little exploding motion with the fingers of one hand accompanied by a small "Pfitz!"

Then he waved the block of explosive at Coll and said, "C4?" Coll nodded again and Rodney replied by clapping his hands together and then moving both arms in a wide arc while simultaneously shouting, "Boom!"

Coll looked impressed.

John said, "Great miming, McKay. Is that how you explain things to your fellow scientists?"

Coll looked round and made a writing motion. Rodney extracted his slate from its place tucked behind his belt and passed it over. Coll drew a rough sketch of a raiders' ship. He pointed at it. "Boom?" he asked.

"Now you're getting the idea!" John grinned.


	13. Journey

Over the next week John tried to push himself a bit harder each day. He walked around the inside of the ramparts at first, climbing each of the watchtowers in turn. Then he began to run between alternate towers, then to run all the way round, clattering up and down the watchtower steps as fast as he could, watched with amusement by the tower guards. Each day, when he felt himself close to exhaustion he would deliberately push just a bit further, so that sometimes it was hard not to stagger on his way back to the hut. 

By the end of the week he could run all the way down to where the slope of the hill met the flat saddle that eventually rose into the next hill in the chain. Then, after catching his breath, he would run all the way back up. Admittedly, at the top, he had to lean against the rampart until the fuzziness cleared from his vision and he was sure his last meal wouldn't make a reappearance, but John felt this was a small price to pay for his returning fitness. He wasn't making as much progress with his arm, however, and he felt it would probably take a long time before he had regained his full strength and range of movement. There were some numb patches on his skin and sometimes his fingers would tingle; signs of nerve damage, he knew. John thought swimming would help and he looked at the distant ocean as he ran around the outer rampart; choppy this morning, with white caps out to the horizon. The sky was clear and he could see the tiny island fort, almost ten klicks due north, he estimated.

They were due to travel to the island fort the following morning, Coll and some of his warriors accompanying them, Breesha and Vorra to come too. Through a complicated series of sketches on Rodney's slate, Vorra had told them that she was to be married to one of the island warriors. The wedding would take place soon. Rodney hoped there'd be a feast. John hoped Vorra's warrior had a good sense of humour; she deserved someone who would appreciate such things as exploding vegetables as much as she did.

John ran round to the south gate, which opened smoothly for him. Rodney had installed his counterweight system on both gates the day before, and whereas the gates used to be opened at sunrise and closed at sunset, now they were opened and closed at every available opportunity or sometimes for no reason at all, just to watch them glide effortlessly. Children had taken to riding on the crossbars of the gates, enjoying being flung off abruptly when the gate reached the end of its arc. John continued running round to the north gate and arrived back at the hut, panting but not gasping for breath. He performed a few stretching exercises with his weak arm, feeling the pull of the scar tissue, and then went into the hut to find Rodney listlessly eating his breakfast bowl of barley porridge.

"What's up?" asked John, seeing Rodney's gloomy expression.

"Bored," stated Rodney succinctly.

"Well, we're off to the island tomorrow. There'll be things to do there," said John, helping himself to a bowl of porridge. "Maybe you could design a portcullis or something."

"Look what Eddie gave me," Rodney pointed to the brooch that fastened his cape. The brooch was formed of a delicate tracery of stems and heart-shaped leaves shaped into a circle, the head of the pin a tiny cluster of blossom. It was beautiful work.

"The smith made this?" asked John.

"Yes! For me!" replied Rodney, with amazement. "He doesn't just have that massive hammer, you know, although that one is his favourite. He probably sleeps with the thing. Anyway, he has some really tiny ones and makes jewelry and so on."

"So you made friends in the end, then," John said.

"I told you," Rodney replied. "He came to respect my ideas!"

John raised an eyebrow. Passing by the forge one day he had seen Rodney in his typical full flow, hands waving, floods of impatient words spewing forth, his stone pencil almost striking sparks from his slate. The smith had looked frankly murderous, looming over Rodney with a huge iron-headed hammer in his hand, muscles flexing. Rodney's absolute conviction that his way was the only right way to do things made him either oblivious or uncaring of the smith's growing wrath. John's sympathies were with the smith, having been in the same situation himself many times, although it seemed Rodney had won him round in the end. John smiled to himself; Rodney's good qualities shone through eventually for those who were prepared, or forced to see them.

oOo

The following morning they set out, not early because the path was well-trodden and would only take just over two hours at a brisk pace or three at a leisurely stroll. The warriors accompanying them included Nollan, who had thrown his spear from the watch tower for comparison with John's P90, and the youngsters, Jed and Mal, who, honoured to have been chosen, were painfully on their best behaviour. John and Vorra enlivened the journey by a game that evolved as they walked along. John had been picking up small chips of slate and amusing himself, as well as giving his arm some exercise, by picking targets, a certain flower, a piece of rock and so on, and trying to hit them with his slate chip. He'd been doing this for a while when a stone went whizzing past him and hit, spot on target, where his stone had just landed. He turned to see Vorra looking smug, another stone in her hand, looking at him with a challenging eye. After a while they took it in turns trying to hit each other's targets and were scoring pretty evenly. John was tempted to see how she did with a Beretta.

Accordingly, when they stopped for a drink of ale and a bite of bread and cheese, John went to Coll and, patting his Berretta in its holster, indicated Vorra with a questioning look. At first Coll shook his head, but Breesha seemed keen for Vorra to be allowed and, predictably, persuaded her husband to acquiesce. John and Vorra walked a little way away from the group and he showed her how to handle the weapon safely, miming how it wouldn't fire with the safety catch on and how she must always be careful where she pointed it. He tried to impress on her the seriousness of weapons-handling as if she were a new recruit, some of whom forgot even basic safety precautions in their excitement. Vorra nodded seriously, her grey eyes intent.

She watched as he took out the magazine and showed her how to hold the weapon, how to stand and how to bring it into firing position. Then he put the weapon in her hands and took her through the whole procedure again, allowing her to dry fire it. He looked around for some targets. There were white stones scattered around, probably quartz, and John set two of them up at about five metres distance. Then he returned to Vorra, showed her how to load the weapon and watched as she adjusted her stance as he had told her, brought the weapon up and squeezed the trigger. Her first shot kicked up a spurt of soil about a foot to the left of her target. Vorra didn't react other than a slight frown and tightening of her jaw. She took a breath and let it out slowly through pursed lips and fired. The piece of quartz shattered. Vorra calmly adjusted her aim, fired again and the second piece of quartz jumped and spun off to one side.

She didn't react until John had taken the Beretta from her and put it back in its holster. Then she gave a broad grin of satisfaction and a laugh of relief and turned to her mother and father, bubbling with excitement. Breesha smiled and nodded with composure, as if Vorra's accomplishment was no more than should be expected of woman of her family. Coll was red in the face and beaming with pride.

Rodney muttered, "How come she can do that? I couldn't even hit those stones now and I've had years of practice!"

"She's a natural, Rodney," said John, rubbing his shoulder. It was aching again and John saw Breesha glaring at him meaningfully. He nodded back; no more games for now.

They continued their journey, coming down from the heather and low-growing vegetation of the moorland to the tree-clad lower slopes and eventually to a river, which they kept on their right as they made their way to the sea. Across the river John could see farmland. There were small, scattered groups working in the fields who waved as they passed. Some were working on rebuilding huts that must have been destroyed during the last raid. On their left a steep-sided hill rose in a long ridge, flanking their route until it suddenly sloped down toward a rocky shore and they could see their destination.

John judged that the island was about two hundred and fifty metres wide. The fort stood about thirty metres above sea level bounded by steep cliffs in places and more gradually descending rocky shelves in others. He could see that a section of the wooden walls extended down over the rocks to protect a landing stage. A stone tower projected high over the wall and John could see the tops of thatched roofs. They had obviously been spotted, as a boat had set off from the landing stage and was already coming to meet them. John looked back toward the wide, shallow mouth of the river and over to the sand dunes and tough grasses of the shore. Not only was he planning the best places to swim from but also how a raiding party might attack and, more importantly, how they might be defeated.


	14. The Island Fort

Rodney looked at the lively stretch of water between the wooden jetty he stood on and the landing place on the island. He looked at the boat being rowed toward them; the way it heaved up to the peak of a wave and fell suddenly to wallow in the trough of the next. His stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch and he wiped a sudden beading of sweat from his brow.

"You OK, Rodney?" enquired John.

Rodney smiled weakly. "Have I ever told you about the time I got sick in a paddling pool?" he said.

John grinned. "It's not far. You'll be fine!"

Rodney gave a huff of disbelief.

The boat came alongside the jetty and one of the two men who were rowing it took ropes from the stern and the bow and threw them to Jed and Mal who held the small boat fast. Vorra hopped aboard, followed by Breesha, with a little more dignity. Coll ushered John and Rodney forward. John stepped down into the boat and sat on one of the thwarts, giving Rodney an encouraging look. Rodney looked at the boat; even here it rose and fell with the motion of the waves and Jed and Mal were struggling to hold it fast. He tightened his jaw and stepped over the gunwhale with determination, then the boat suddenly fell away beneath him and he landed awkwardly on top of John. John pushed him round until Rodney sat next to him, clinging with both hands to the thwart.

"Not a natural sailor, then?" commented John.

Rodney gave him a sidelong look, half irritation, half panic and wondered if there were any giant white whales in these waters. Coll and Nollen stepped aboard, casually, matching their motions to the surge of the waves and finally Jed and Mal, releasing their tension on the ropes and leaping in as the boat began to lurch away from the jetty. They sat down and took up a spare pair of oars, grinning at each other as if the whole thing was a treat, Rodney thought sourly. His thoughts rapidly became even more sour as his stomach tried to reconcile its contents with the heaving, wallowing motions of the small boat. The worst bit, Rodney thought, was the peak of each wave where the boat seemed to pause as if in thought, before the sea fell away beneath it and it plummeted, to land, sometimes with an audible smack in the trough of the next wave. Rodney tried to breathe the fresh sea air slowly and deeply, but there was an underlying fishy smell in the boat which wasn't helping.

Breesha looked at him with sympathy, John with amusement. Jed, Mal and the two island men were singing a lively rowing song in time with their strokes. Actually singing, thought Rodney with disgust. Their singing seemed to keep their powerful strokes in time, however, and their efficiency soon brought the boat to the island. Another ordeal awaited Rodney as the tide was low and they had to wait for the little boat to surge upward before they could step off on to the landing stage. The others seemed to think it was a kind of a game, chanting in time with the waves before taking a giant step off the boat and into the arms of their friends. When it was Rodney's turn he wobbled, one foot in the bottom of the boat, one on the thwart, but when the wave lifted the boat, Jed and Mal reached forward, hauled him out and plopped him down onto the thankfully solid jetty. He smiled at them weakly and watched John wait for the rise of a wave and step out with studied nonchalance.

The landing stage led up to a solid-looking wooden gate, which was followed by a narrow passage between high wooden walls and then another gate. _I could improve this arrangement_, thought Rodney. Once through the second gate they were greeted by a tall, jovial-looking man, who, they gathered, was the island's chieftain. Coll introduced him as Orrin, followed by his wife, Aylish and their son, Kerran. Kerran was similar in looks and manner to his father, dark-haired, strong-looking and also, when his eyes fell on Vorra, red-faced and beaming. So, here was Vorra's intended, thought Rodney. The man looked like he had a good appetite; there would be no stinting at his wedding feast.

They were led to the central meeting house, which, unlike the hill fort's, was a long, rectangular building. The two families, hill and island, were busily getting reacquainted, Breesha and Aylish with their heads together, with many nods and glances cast in John and Rodney's direction. The longhouse had a central hearth and several logs running down the length of the building by way of benches. There were three chairs for the Chieftain's family at the head of the room, but Orrin gestured to the logs nearest the fire and they all sat down together. Vorra began a lively account and her actions were so descriptive that John and Rodney could tell she was describing the whole exploding rutabaga incident. Orrin looked at John and Rodney with increased interest, but John left his P90 where it was, wrapped up in a bundle of his clothes. When Coll began to speak they could tell that he was giving an account of his daughter's prowess with John's Beretta. Kerran laughed aloud with pleasure and there was obviously some good-natured teasing, along the lines of: "She'll keep you under control!"

Some of the ubiquitous light ale was brought but it looked like they'd have to wait until later for food. Rodney didn't mind; his stomach was still unsettled from its recent sea voyage. The initial catching-up over with, the group dispersed, Coll and his family being taken to their accommodation by Aylish and the rest of the men being shown a small hut in which there was the usual central hearth and several piles of animal skins in lieu of beds. They distributed the skins in five piles; they weren't as comfortable as the beds they'd had in the hillfort and Rodney sniffed at them suspiciously and thought of his comfortable bed on Atlantis. Although, more often than not, he reflected, he would fall asleep over a work bench in his lab and wake up stiff and sore and with a keyboard-imprinted face; even animal skins would be more comfortable than that.

oOo

The longhouse, filled with people, seemed a different place, the hubbub of voices and laughter, the smoke from the built-up fire and the dim light made for a convivial atmosphere, even though Rodney and John couldn't understand a word of what was being said. Whether the islanders all met up for an evening meal every day or whether this was a special occasion to welcome Coll's family, they weren't sure, but the food was plentiful, so Rodney at least was happy. John was less content, because it seemed that Orrin was reluctant to strike back at the raiders using John's incomprehensible methods. There was much discussion, both verbally between Orrin and Coll, and using Rodney's slate, but Orrin remained unconvinced. For John and Rodney's benefit he scratched out a picture of his usual plan: everyone into the fort and a select few to herd the animals as far inland as possible. Coll looked disappointed and spoke to Orrin persuasively, but by his gestures and tone, Orrin remained unmoved. Rodney looked at John, expecting to see impatience, but instead John was scratching his chin, looking thoughtful.

"I don't blame him," John said, "If someone came to us with unknown technology that they weren't even prepared to demonstrate and said: 'Next time the Wraith attack, just leave it to us,' would we trust them? And we can't even talk to them!"

"Well, we can't exactly show them the C4," said Rodney. "We need it all. We shouldn't even show them the P90 again, or even play around with the handguns," he said pointedly. "We need to save the ammo."

"I have to do something to gain the man's trust," said John. "But what would persuade him?"

"Something foolish and reckless, knowing you," muttered Rodney.


	15. Fight

John spun slowly in the water. Which was better than the fast spinning he'd been doing a minute ago and better still than the precarious tilt he'd done before that, which had nearly landed him in the sea. He had risen early and, seeing a group of children leaving the fort carrying between them small round coracle-type boats, had followed them out of the main gate and over the rocks to where they launched their little craft and began fishing with handlines. The sea was calm today or, John thought, their little round canvas-covered boats would quickly have been swamped. John had stood watching until one of the boys had jumped out of his coracle and hauled it up onto the rocks and, seeing John, had held out the paddle to him and indicated the boat, speaking questioningly.

John had taken the boy up on his offer, but quickly realised he must have been a bit of a joker. John nearly fell in just climbing into the tricky little craft and then, using the one paddle, could at first only get the boat to spin in circles. Eventually, by observing the other children, he managed to make some progress by wedging his feet against the opposite side of the boat for stability and reaching forward to paddle in a figure eight in front of the boat. The children grinned and clapped encouragingly and seemed especially attentive when John, deciding his arm had had enough exercise and he wanted his breakfast, paddled himself over to the rocky shore and began to climb out. There was a burst of delighted laughter when the coracle decided to part company with John's chosen landing place, and John was deposited in the cold water. He emerged, spluttering and gasping at the cold and the rasping saltiness, hauled himself out and sat, his woollen clothes dripping heavily and smiled ruefully at the children.

"You knew that would happen, didn't you?" he said.

The children, seeing John was inclined to take his dunking in good part, climbed out of their coracles and, beaching them, helped John to wring out his clothes and gave him a couple of their fish. He noted, for future reference, that they'd worked in pairs, helping each other climb out; it was obviously a two-man job. John was the target of delighted laughter once more when he returned to his hut.

"Enjoy your morning swim?" Rodney chortled.

"Yes. Thank you!" said John, "and less of the laughter if you want to share my fish."

He set the fish down by the hearth and Jed and Mal eagerly began preparing them. John took off his wet cape and flung it over the rafters in such a way that heavy drops of water flicked all over Rodney. "This is going to take all day to dry," he said. "Looks like I'm going Atlantean today!"

"It might help," said Rodney, through a mouthful of barley porridge.

"What, why?" said John, struggling out of his water-logged tunic.

"If Orrin sees you all black-clad and business-like," said Rodney, waving his spoon. "Do that expression you do when we're in a life-or-death, saving-the-world kind of situation. You know!"

"Do I?" said John. "I'm not sure I can do that if we're not actually in a life-or-death situation."

"Try," Rodney said.

So after breakfast, John emerged from the hut, mission ready, his shirt-sleeves rolled up, his tac vest on and his P90 slung crossways in its usual fashion. He didn't intend using it, but it made an impressive statement. John tried to look warlike but was thwarted by the children running around him, laughing; they knew exactly why he'd had to change his clothes. Rodney shooed the children away with impatience, but John grinned at them, unable to maintain his serious expression for long.

There was a broad empty space in the middle of the fort, next to the high watchtower and longhouse. Some of the men were practicing their skills, throwing spears at targets, fighting with wooden swords and a group were practicing unarmed combat. Orrin and Coll strode between the groups, Orrin obviously showing off his warriors with considerable pride. Coll's eyes fell on John and Rodney and he spoke to Orrin, who looked impressed by John's appearance. Coll looked at John speculatively and John thought that if he was hoping for another firearms demonstration he was going to be disappointed. But that wasn't what Coll had in mind at all. They approached and Coll spoke, gesturing to the three practicing groups as if to say to John, "Which is it to be?"

Rodney groaned. "Did I say something foolish and reckless? I think this qualifies!"

John looked at Coll. He knew that this could be his chance to impress Orrin. He also got the impression that Coll needed to see John compete on their terms in order to give John his full backing, rather than relying on his weapons to give him an edge. John sighed. He knew he'd have no chance with the spears. The wooden swords were a possibility if he used the techniques Teyla had taught him with her bantos rods. Unarmed combat he could do, but there were some tricky issues involved; firstly, the unarmed combat group were all huge. John knew he could take any of them down one-on-one, but he would have to be quick and decisive and not give his opponent a chance to use his superior size and strength. Which led him to the other problem; John's quick, decisive techniques were those he had learnt carrying out black-ops and tended to result in fatalities, which wouldn't leave a good impression. So, back to the swords. They were practice long-swords, designed for slashing rather than stabbing. They consisted merely of a blade, round-ended, and a hilt with no cross-piece; so far, so similar to a bantos rod. There were also some similarities with bantos fighting technique, but enough differences to give John an advantage.

John turned to Coll. "Swords," he said, pointing.

"This is such a bad idea," Rodney said, worriedly.

"I need to do this, Rodney," said John, looking at him intently. "I need to earn their trust.

"I don't see why they should trust you more just because you can beat someone with a wooden stick!" spluttered Rodney. "But, yes, I agree, it'll impress them. The question is, can you do it?"

"I've got one or two ideas," grinned John.

"Right, then," said Rodney. "If you're going to do this, do it properly. First you need to strip off, like them." All the other combatants wore just their leggings and boots; there was a lot of posing going on and flexing of muscles.

"I don't think that'll be impressive," mumbled John, shiftily.

"Yes. It will," said Rodney, who had taken charge and was enjoying the fact. "These people look the type to be impressed by scars and you've got plenty."

"They're more likely to think I just get beat up all the time, and I don't know how to say: 'You should see the other guy!' in their language."

Rodney glared at him. John sheepishly began to remove his P90 and tac vest.

"Second," continued Rodney, "you need to make a show of it. Not that quick and dirty stuff you do when it's real. Manly posturing is what's needed here!"

John, unbuttoning his shirt, looked even more shifty. "That's not really my style, Rodney."

"Well, make it your style!" Rodney insisted. "You wanted an opportunity to impress, so impress!"

John took off his shirt and, reluctantly, his t-shirt. There was a general rumble of approval from the men. Rodney was right; they were the type to be impressed by scars, although John wondered if he'd just committed a tactical error. His opponent would be able to see the fresh scar on his arm and would probably take advantage.

A space had been cleared for the fight and John's opponent stepped forward. Kerran. Not looking so good-humoured now, a wooden blade in his hand, as if it were a natural extension of his arm. Coll passed John a sword and he tested it for balance and tried a few moves with it, just some simple passes so as not to reveal any of the unusual techniques he intended to try. The wooden weapon was well-balanced and felt good in his hand. He gave a small smile. He had practiced fighting Teyla with one stick to her two. He knew his reactions were quick; this might be fun.

John and Kerran circled each other, each studying their opponent. Kerran seemed a straightforward kind of man, not given to hiding his emotions; John wondered if he would use much guile and deceit in his fighting style. He gave his sword a circular flourish as he would with a bantos rod and watched Kerran's eyes move to the blade; he could be distracted then. John moved forward quickly trying a flurry of strikes, scoring some minor hits, testing Kerran's defences. Kerran's eyes narrowed, focussing on John's, trying to see the attacks coming. He became more determined, launching his own attack and driving John back towards the edge of the circle. Their blades locked, but John gave way to one side and rolled underneath Kerran's arm, reversing their positions and striking Kerran's back as he rose. Kerran instantly whirled round and managed to strike John's cheek before John had regained his balance. John, momentarily disoriented, didn't see the next blow coming and took the full force on his half-healed arm, splitting the skin and surprising from him a gasp of pain. At this point his training with the bantos rods became crucial; he transferred the blade to his left hand, knowing that he was just as effective fighting left-handed. Kerran found it more difficult to counter John's attacks, which came in thick and fast from unexpected directions, striking him about his shoulders and ribs. John decided to end it. He flourished his blade and feinted to the right, Kerran's eyes following the blade's confusing movements. Then he hit hard at Kerran's arm, driving his blade out of the way and moving past him to come at him from behind. Unfortunately, John caught a hefty blow on his ribs as he passed, but he succeeded in pulling Kerran's head back with his blade under his chin, and thrusting his body forward with his knee, leaving Kerran helpless. Thank you, Teyla, thought John, breathing heavily.

Kerran dropped his sword and waved his hand in submission. John released his choke-hold and Kerran slumped to the ground, rubbing his throat. The problem now was that John was genuinely annoyed. He was trying to help these people and now he was battered and in pain; his arm hadn't been completely healed and this had definitely set it back. And it hadn't even been a proper fight, not like real fighting where your life and the lives of others were at stake. These people needed to see what he was really about.

John flung aside the sword angrily and marched across to the men who had been practicing unarmed combat. He sized them up, pointed to the largest and said: "You! Here! Now!"

The man strode out eagerly, flexing his arms and posturing to the crowd. John didn't give him a chance. Battered and sore as he was, he allowed the adrenaline to flood his body and fought as if his opponent were Genii, Wraith, anyone who dared to threaten his team, his city, his world. In a few practiced, decisive moves John floored the man and only held back when he had his head in a hold that could clearly result in a broken neck, were he to apply more force. The crowd was shocked, silent. John released the man and staggered over to Rodney, the adrenaline ebbing rapidly leaving him feeling sick and in pain.

"Um... that was what I meant," said Rodney. "That was your life-or-death, save-the-world expression." He looked round at the stunned faces. "Yes, I think I can safely say that did the job."


	16. Breesha

Breesha and Vorra were spending a pleasant morning in Aylish's family hut, comfortably ensconced on soft piles of furs, sipping a delicious ale flavoured with fruit that Breesha was hoping Aylish would give her the recipe for. They were choosing fabric for Vorra's wedding clothes and had selected a lovely deep-dyed almost orangey yellow for her dress. Now they were looking at a scarlet fabric to drape round as a long stole. Vorra would need matching flowers for her hair, of course. There were various varieties of yellow marsh flower that could be gathered and would stay fresh in a garland. Red was more problematic, but Breesha was inventive and thought some of the red fabric might be twisted and arranged into flower shapes and woven in amongst the rest. She was about to share her thoughts with her daughter and friend when she became aware that the noise-level from the men's daily practice was rising; had risen, in fact, to a general roar, punctuated by gasps and cheers.

Breesha pondered this development briefly and immediately leapt to the correct conclusion. What was different about today's practice? Whose presence might have altered the dynamic? The two strangers, of course, John and Rodney. And of the two, she knew which was by far the more likely to have stirred things up and got himself into some kind of trouble. Breesha stood and said calmly and with authority: "Ladies, I believe the menfolk are in need of our guidance!" She strode with stately dignity from the hut, Aylish successfully copying her comportment and Vorra, trying, but slightly too eager to see her mother reducing the men of the Island to shame-faced children.

The practice area was totally silent when the women arrived; the crowd parted before them to reveal John, holding one of Orrin's most formidable warriors in a dangerous neck hold. He released the warrior and stood up unsteadily, glaring round the ring of faces as if to say, "Is that what you wanted to see?"

Breesha also looked around the ring, seeing the shock and surprise. Fools, she thought. What manner of man did they think this was? She had seen the scars on his body, she had heard the anger and fear in his fever-ridden dreams; she knew he had been treated harshly and had treated others harshly in return. His mischievous grin and boyishness notwithstanding, this was a man who killed, and when he had to he killed silently and swiftly in the dark.

Vorra had run to Kerran and was exclaiming over his injuries and inclined to look at John with unfriendly eyes. But when he weaved unsteadily over to Rodney and sank to his knees, holding his reopened wound, she began instead berating her betrothed. Breesha moved to John's side and knelt down. He raised his head and looked at her, apologetically as if knowing he had incurred her wrath. Breesha however, just looked at him with sympathy and understanding. She had known something like this would happen; had known that Orrin and her misguided husband too, would need some proof of John's warrior status, other than his clever toys. Breesha stood, and turned towards her husband and Orrin. She drew herself up and lifted her chin, every inch the Chieftain's consort; Vorra turned from her disgraced groom and watched, knowing that one day she would fulfill the same role.

"You are pleased with this morning's work, chieftains?" she said, in a carrying voice dripping with sarcasm. "You are pleased to have made our ally prove himself in order to win your trust? He and his friend have given their trust freely, have offered what help they can. Do you think it an honourable thing that this man is injured again for your amusement?" Her voice changed and she spoke in a low tone, throbbing with intensity: "Do you fool yourselves that these men come from some distant isle? That they were shipwrecked on our shores?" She paused, knowing what she was about to say would shock. "They came through the Great Ring!" An uneasy ripple went through the crowd. "You know it to be true! The Great Ring, through which in ancient times came delight and horror in equal measure such that the land itself is split asunder in that place." The crowd were transfixed by her words. "These men are not of this world and one day they will return from whence they came! Will they return thinking the people of the Hill and the Island are honourable and true? Or will they leave with images of a people who glorify the hurt they can do to others?"

With that she turned and stalked away, her long, green cape snapping behind her as she turned. 

Rodney had helped John up and had his right arm around John's waist, John's left arm slung over Rodney's shoulder. Breesha collected up John's discarded clothing, giving Vorra the P90 to hold. They reached their hut and Rodney lowered John onto his pile of animal skins where he lay down with a groan. Breesha knelt down next to him. There was a long bruise forming on the left side of his ribs. Breesha felt along the bruise, John wincing and trying not to bat her hands away; Breesha didn't think they were broken, just bruised.

Rodney had got out the medical kit and John looked down at his arm which was still bleeding slightly and touched his cut cheek, looking at the blood on his fingertips. Rodney pushed his hand away, speaking sharply, Breesha thought to tell him not to get dirt in the cut. Rodney began to clean the cut on John's face while Breesha took care of his arm. The healing scar tissue had split, not too deeply, but the whole area was bruised and swollen. John winced as she cleaned the wound. Rodney and Breesha used butterflies to close the cuts and applied dressings over the top. Breesha looked at John and once again wished she could communicate properly with him. She would have liked to tell him that she didn't blame him for this latest misadventure; she knew it had been forced upon him. In fact, she thought, why couldn't she teach them both some of her language? Here was a captive audience, after all. John would be stiff and sore for a few days and she was determined he wouldn't over-exert himself too soon this time. She could keep him out of trouble, perhaps, with some language lessons. But for now, some food would be welcome, certainly for Rodney, who appeared always to be hungry, and some herbal tea for John's pain. 

"Vorra, go to our hut and bring the bread and cheese and the tea - you know the one," she directed.

"Yes, mother." She hesitated. "Was not father to have shared the bread and cheese?"

"He will no doubt eat with Orrin," said Breesha carelessly, building up the fire in preparation for making tea. She pointed at the fire and said 'fire' in her language. The men looked at her with blank incomprehension. She repeated herself and then waved her hand, encouragingly. Rodney spoke, understanding in his eyes. He repeated after Breesha as she named various objects around the hut. John lay, silently, with his eyes shut trying not to breathe too much around his aching ribs. He asked a plaintive question and Breesha caught the word 'Tylenol'. That was a word Breesha recognised and she drew the pack out of the medical kit and handed it to John, saying "Tylenol!" proudly. He thanked her and Rodney poured him a cup of the ever-present light ale and passed it to him. Rodney attempted the words Breesha had told him for cup, pitcher and ale, stumbling over some, and Breesha smilingly correcting him. Vorra returned and set the tea on to boil, while Rodney rapidly learned the words for 'bread', 'cheese' and 'more', Breesha laughed. She should have known he'd be motivated by food. John didn't seem that interested in the food. He drank some of the herbal tea and drifted into an uneasy sleep, Breesha covering him with a blanket. They sat in silence for a while, Rodney finishing the last of the food.

Breesha thought it was time to confirm her thoughts. She made a writing motion with her hand and looked at Rodney. He extracted his slate from its usual place tucked in his belt and handed it and the writing stone over. Breesha had never seen the Great Ring. Her people avoided the area, thinking it cursed. The stories passed down through the generations told both of wonders and horrors; people who had come to teach and learn, who had shared their seemingly magical items of healing, but also creatures who had come to kill, to reduce people to lifeless husks. Nobody had come from the Great Ring for an unimaginable number of years. Breesha drew what she thought the Ring looked like and set it on a line, as of a rocky clifftop. Rodney took the slate. He moved round to sit next to her and drew and altered the picture rapidly to show her what had happened. Five stick figures, then he drew the ground with a shaky line as if it were moving. He rubbed out three of the figures, pointing to the ring; so some of them had made it back through. Then he rubbed out the picture and altered it completely. A shattered surface, the Great Ring gone and just two solitary figures walking away.

Breesha looked at Rodney; his eyes were bleak, his mouth drooped. She put a reassuring hand on his arm. Their people would come for them, somehow.


	17. Communicating

The following morning Breesha entered the hut early, bringing Coll and Orrin and a cooking pot of the usual barley porridge. John, half asleep still, heard her sending Nollan, Jed and Mal out, presumably to breakfast elsewhere. Unusually, it was Rodney who was up and dressed ready for the day, while John still lay in his pile of furs just wearing his 'Granny nightgown', as Rodney called it. He was reluctant to move; his ribs ached and his arm throbbed. He sat up when they entered, though and tried to smooth his hair down a bit, which made it worse because he hadn't washed out the sea salt from the day before. He sat uncomfortably, hunched over his ribs and holding his arm, so Breesha pulled over another pile of bed furs and used them to prop him up and then arranged a sling which she had brought with her round John's arm.

"Thank you," he said, feeling much better.

"You're welcome," she replied, and John looked at her in surprise.

"I taught her that!" said Rodney.

Coll and Orrin arranged themselves on the floor and Breesha put on the barley porridge to heat. She had also brought with her a little pot, which she set down next to the hearth. John saw Rodney eyeing the pot, obviously hoping for honey. Breesha looked at Rodney and made a writing gesture.

"Looks like they're ready to listen to our plan, now," said John.

"Yes, all it took was a bit of mindless violence," said Rodney, bitterly, "so that's nice!"

He took out his slate and with John's guidance outlined their plan. When the beacon lit, a party of warriors, led by Coll and John would make for the mainland and lie in wait for the attackers. John hadn't yet scoped out the land, so didn't know how the men would be best deployed, but that was a detail that could be settled later. The farmers who lived on the mainland would, as usual split into two groups; those who would herd the animals as far inland as they could and those who would make for the safety of the fort. Orrin would stay in the fort to lead a defence against any possible incursion. Here Rodney drew a sketch of a portcullis that he thought might make a useful addition to the defences.

Rodney would have the job of supervising the four swimmers who would take the C4 out to the raiders' ships and plant it on their hulls. There would probably be more than four ships, but they only had four blocks of C4 and the idea was that at least some of the raiders would make it home to tell the tale of a settlement that was best avoided in future. When all his swimmers had returned Rodney, hidden among the sand dunes, would detonate the C4. Orrin seemed unsure of the benefits of the C4, holding a block in his hand in disbelief. John shrugged, and Rodney tried his best to draw an exploding ship; his art skills had improved considerably since he'd been communicating by slate. It only remained to decide who would defend the farmland and who would be Rodney's swimmers, and they would leave that to Orrin and Coll to decide.

Rodney finished off the last of the porridge (with honey), while Orrin and Coll talked amongst themselves. They seemed to reach an agreement and smiled and nodded at John and Rodney, getting ready to leave. Rodney put up his hand to stop them and drew a few quick sketches on the slate, resulting in his being taken off to meet the smith and carpenters to see about improving the fort's defences. John thought about 'Eddie' the smith back at the hillfort and hoped Rodney would win these people round without receiving too many threats of violence, of which he'd probably remain oblivious anyway.

John started to get up and gather his clothes, but Breesha pushed him gently back onto the bed with a look that said, "Not today!"

"Come on," said John, "I'm fine!" but the glare Breesha gave him had him subsiding, grumbling, onto the bed.

Breesha checked his arm and changed the dressing and then made him some more herbal tea, insisting he drank the full amount of the bitter brew. John had no idea what was in the tea, but soon found himself feeling drowsy. He hadn't had a good night's sleep due to his aching ribs and arm so was glad just to drift off with Breesha calmly moving about the room, setting things in order.

When John woke Breesha was in a businesslike mood and seemed determined to teach John her language. She pointed to various objects in the room and had John repeat their names several times, then she disappeared briefly and came back with a slate like Rodney's and proceeded to teach him words such as man, woman, boy, girl, he, she etc. Abstract concepts were the hardest and John and Breesha just had to assume they were getting at the same thing sometimes.

In the afternoon Rodney returned with news of his work with the smith and carpenters. Reading between the lines, John thought that Rodney had gone with his usual approach of explaining his ideas too fast and too emphatically and had managed to rub everyone up the wrong way. It seemed like nothing might have been achieved if the smith hadn't spotted Rodney's shoulder brooch, and recognising the work of his counterpart, and Rodney as somebody who had somehow earned such a special item, he began to be more receptive to Rodney's ideas and encouraged the carpenters to behave likewise. The work progressed.

Over the next couple of days Rodney carried on working on the defences and Breesha continued to give John language lessons. They usually sat in the central clearing of the fort, or sometimes on the rocks outside the gate, if the sea was calm. Different scenes gave scope for learning different words and soon John was able to have short simple conversations. He taught Rodney what he had learned each evening and Rodney tried to put it into practice the following day, with, he said, variable results and much hilarity among his workers.

One day, sitting on the rocks outside the gate, listening to the calm lap of the water, John was in a thoughtful mood. He missed Atlantis and the rest of his team. Spending time on this planet had given John back his friendship with Rodney and he had made new friends. It had also given him a certain measure of peace with some of the harder experiences he'd had to go through over the years. But he missed Atlantis. Breesha was trying to teach him words about the weather, with limited success. She was drawing something on the slate that may have been meant to be rain; or wind; or possibly snow.

"Please, can I have it?" he said, speaking to Breesha in her language.

She passed him the slate. He drew a tall man with lots of hair and a knife in one hand and a gun in the other. Then he drew a woman holding the hand of a wriggling toddler. He put two rods in her other hand and smiled. "Ronon and Teyla," he said, pointing.

"Your friends," Breesha said.

"Yes," he said. He drew in himself and Rodney too, not knowing the word for team.

Suddenly John was startled out of his melancholy by the sound of quick steps on the wood of the landing stage, someone leaping over the rocks and a splash as the person dived into the sea.

Whoever it was didn't come up. John leapt to his feet, making his ribs twinge.

"Sit," said Breesha calmly.

"But, who was that?" he scanned the surface of the water.

His question was answered when Vorra's head burst from the surface and she flicked her wet hair out of her eyes and smiled.

"Hello!" she said, and dived beneath the surface.

"What's she doing?" asked John.

"Fishing," replied Breesha. "Shellfish." She drew a picture of a curly shell on the slate, to confirm her words.

Vorra came back up to the surface several times before hauling herself out onto the rocks and sitting beside them, showing John her catch which she kept in a rough cloth bag at her waist. She was wearing a short underdress and John was surprised she was allowed to wear something so revealing. Knowing Vorra, she probably wasn't allowed but did it anyway.

"You swim well," he said to her.

"I will be one of Rodney's swimmers!" she said with a challenging look at her mother.

"Will she?" said John.

Breesha looked as if there was a lot she's like to say on the subject but didn't think John's language skills were up to it yet. He guessed Coll and Kerran would be against the idea, but was less sure about Breesha, who seemed to think her daughter should have the same opportunities as a man, when she wanted them.

She said, simply: "Probably."


	18. The Wedding

It was about a week until the next full moon and John was worried. If the raiders came this month he would struggle to play his part. The bruising on his ribs was fading and would probably be OK but his arm had never really recovered from the axe wound. John knew he would struggle to fire his P90 for any length of time and if it came to hand-to-hand combat he could be in trouble; adrenaline would only carry him so far. He began a program of mobility and strengthening exercises and had himself rowed over to the beach each morning to swim, trying to increase the distance he swam each day. This also had the advantage that he got to know some of the farmers and to check out the lie of the land to plan possible defensive strategies. There was a large area of sand dunes, prickly with tough grasses and thistle-like plants between the beach and the farmland. They could provide good cover, but could also potentially hide the enemy. There were several stands of trees and low bushes behind the dunes and then the farm huts themselves began, and various animal enclosures.

From his experience in Breck Bay John knew that the raiders would anchor their boats in shallow water and then wade the rest of the way to the shore. They couldn't sail up the river to attack the farmland from higher up because the river simply wasn't deep enough; it would probably make a good harbour if properly dredged, John thought. The swimmers with their C4 would need to start from further along the beach, out of sight of the ships and come at them from the deeper water, in order to avoid being seen by enemy lookouts. As John returned to the fort after his swim each day, he wondered, will they come? Will this be the month?

But they didn't. The night the full moon rose over the hills the whole fort listened out for the cry of the lookout. But no cry came. The relief was palpable and John was thankful that he would have another month to regain his strength; in another month he was determined he would be ready.

The way was now clear for Vorra and Kerran's wedding celebrations and the fort became a hive of activity, extra food being brought in from the farms and more fishing boats going out each day. Rodney and John smartened themselves up for the occasion, Rodney lending John his shaving kit, although the razors were getting a bit blunt and neither ended up as clean-shaven as they would have liked. John's hair, as usual, stuck up no matter what he did. 

The ceremony itself was very simple. The island occupants stood in a circle in the central clearing around the bride and bridegroom. Orrin led the proceedings, speaking a few solemn words and then passing the couple a two-handled cup from which they both drank.

"Mead," whispered Rodney to John. "Maybe we'll get some later."

Then the couple faced each other and their hands were bound together with yellow and red strips of cloth in symbolic union.

"How are they meant to get out of that?" whispered John to Rodney. Rodney shrugged.

Then the couple walked all around the circle of the crowd followed by cheers and congratulations and led everyone into the longhouse to sit at the head of the room in the chairs usually reserved for Orrin and Aylish. They were apparently allowed to release themselves from their handfasting bonds at this point, John was relieved to see.

The feast that followed provided enough food even for Rodney's appetite. As well as fish, bread and cheese, there were green cabbage and chard-like vegetables collected from the seashore. There was even roasted meat, which was a rarity for most of the inhabitants. Rodney's favourites were the honey cakes, which were plentiful, the honey bees having had a good summer so far. John watched Rodney, honey dripping down his chin, conversing animatedly, if not entirely intelligibly with one of the carpenters, who was sitting next to him.

When most of the food had been eaten the log benches were rolled to the side of the room and a group of musicians formed up in one corner, ready for dancing. There were soft-toned wooden pipes, a small harp and a tambour-like drum. Vorra got up from her seat and gesturing to two of her friends, led the way into the centre of the room. The music started; a soft, lilting, halting melody on a single wooden pipe with gentle harp accompaniment weaving around it. The three girls lifted their arms to shoulder height, and began their dance, a slow, swirling back and forth, weaving in and out of each other, their movements fluid, their skirts making slow lazy circles with the turning of their bodies, the flickering firelight glimmering on their hair. It was mesmerising and when the dance came to an end there was silence. And then Kerran got up and going to Vorra, he took her in his arms and kissed her soundly. The room erupted in earthy cheers and catcalls and the mood was broken.

There followed a series of lively dances and because the ale was flowing and their spirits were high, both John and Rodney tried to join in. They sometimes went the wrong way in a dance and more than one foot got trodden on, but everyone was too good-humoured to mind.

There was a lull in the proceedings while the musicians refreshed themselves and John thought he'd go and have a look at the instruments. There was nothing like his guitar, but he thought he might be able to pick out a tune on the little harp. The harpist was involved with a large cup of ale and some fish and when John gestured towards the harp and said, "Can I try?" he waved his jug of ale in assent.

John sat down and picked up the harp. It was quite a small, simple instrument; he ran his hands up and down the strings making a beautiful rippling sound. Then he found the notes he knew from his guitar strings to orient himself. He discovered that if he played a bass note with his left hand he could pluck two notes of a chord with his right and alternating this pattern would make a good accompaniment. He worked out the three main chords that would harmonise with most melodies and then, slowly began to sing, 'I still miss someone' by his favourite, Johnny Cash. A melancholy song to sing at a wedding, but the Islanders couldn't understand the words anyway. He sang it for all the people he missed and most of all for Atlantis herself. So involved was he in the music that he didn't notice the hall falling silent around him until he stopped and then, realising, dropped his head with an embarrassed smile. 

Then he saw that Rodney was standing beside him.

"You want a go?" asked John.

Rodney's fingers were twitching. "Well," he said, "the piano's my thing really, and it's been a while..."

"Go on, McKay, entertain us!" said John moving aside.

Rodney sat down. He strummed his fingers up and down the strings, getting a feel for the instrument. It was quite simple and didn't have the equivalent of the black keys on a piano. He began playing 'Greensleeves' picking out the tune with his right hand and a simple accompaniment with the left. This met with a pleased ripple of applause and gave Rodney the confidence to improvise, weaving in tunes that he knew when they occurred to him. John sat and enjoyed the music; it was good to see Rodney's spur-of-the-moment, under-pressure genius being used in a different context to their usual life-or-death situations.

Rodney's playing came to an end, to a great chorus of approval and then the lively dancing began again and went on far into the night.

oOo

The festivities over, life in the fort and on the mainland returned to normal. John and Rodney made good progress in their language studies and John's arm continued to improve so that he was confident by the next full moon he'd be passed for active duty even if Dr Keller were around to give her approval. The warriors to lead the defence of the farmland were selected and John and Coll carried out training activities with them, so that they knew they could work well as a team and had various contingency plans that they could put into effect swiftly and efficiently. Rodney's swimmers were also selected; Vorra, at her insistence was one of them, following a series of impassioned arguments with her new husband and father. John had not been able to follow the full torrent of words, but had been able to pick out the gist: Vorra claimed the right to defend her home, people and lands in the same way as a man would do.

The end of the month arrived and the atmosphere in the fort and on the farms was tense. A full moon again, the second since the raiders had come. There were not so very many more until the weather changed and the wide ocean they had to cross would become too stormy. As the sun sank towards the horizon all ears were on the alert, listening intently for the cry of the lookout from the top of the tower. Even the waves against the rocky shore seemed muted.

And then it came: "The beacon! The beacon is lit!


	19. The Raid

John looked left and right along the dune. The warriors lay silently in the moonlight, the tips of their spears glinting. As well as the weapons they held ready in their hands there was a forest of spears, stuck butt-first into the sand. They were made according to Rodney's suggestion, along the lines of Roman pila, with a wooden shaft and a long, narrow iron head designed to bend on impact so it could not be thrown back. They were well-prepared, but still John was worried. Coll had told him that usually there were twenty-five to thirty men on each ship. Last time seven ships had sailed; that was potentially two hundred and ten raiders. John's forces numbered fifty. They would have to use to the full the first few minutes when the raiders landed on the shore.

Wind vibrated the tough grasses on top of the dunes; the waves washed up over the beach, pulling shingle back into the sea with a rushing sound; spears clinked together gently as the warriors shifted position. Then the sound of the sea changed; a slow, rhythmic slapping from several directions; and then a subtle splashing of carefully dropped anchors.

Then they came; seven ships and the raiders flooded over their sides in a great, determined steam. They charged up the beach, axes in hands, but the warriors knew to wait. They waited until the raiders were crowded onto the sands and then, when John's P90 burst out, then they released their storm of spears. John sprayed the beach in a wide arc, taking down as many as he could; this time was crucial if they were to survive and John felt no compunction in using his weapon against primitives armed only with axes and swords. They had terrorised this island for years, carrying off goods and people alike, slaying and burning as they saw fit; it was time for them to pay the price.

John's weapon and the deluge of spears cut a swathe through the raiders, but then, as John had known they would, groups of raiders began to break off to either side, trying to outflank the defenders. "Fall back!" John called, and the warriors retreated behind the next rows of dunes, orienting themselves to repel the attackers coming from their sides. They would continue to retreat, skirmish-style, toward the farmland, too few in number to continue to repel raiders from the beach and defend the farms simultaneously.

oOo

Rodney watched from the shadows further along the shore. He heard the P90 shattering the silence of the night, he heard the roar of attackers and defenders, he saw many of the raiders fall. But then the battle began to move inland and that was the sign for the swimmers to move.

"Now," said Rodney, "Go on!"

Vorra looked at him and nodded, determination in her eyes. She led the way down to the sea and the four swimmers slipped silently into the waves and then began pulling with strong overhand strokes out through the breakers and then turning to follow the shoreline, aiming to come from seaward to fix their explosives to the undefended ships.

oOo

John crept along the line of the sand dune, head low. He could see shapes flitting amongst the trees, a large group which would soon intercept a small group of John's warriors hidden further inland among the farm outhouses. John decided to improve their odds.

The group made a break for it, running across the open land towards the farmsteads. John, down to his last magazine, stood and taking careful aim, began picking them off one at a time. The group scattered and he couldn't cover them all. Some made it to the farm-buildings where John heard the clash of hand-to-hand combat begin, some headed back to the trees for cover, some, marking John's position, zig-zagged toward him. The P90 was out of ammo. John let it hang on its sling and drew his Beretta. He aimed and fired twice, but the moon had gone behind a cloud and he wasn't sure if he was on target. He dropped behind the dune again and, running low, made his way further inland. Sounds came from all around him, whether friend or foe he couldn't tell. He ducked down next to a stand of sea thistles and froze, motionless. Now would be a good time for an explosion or four, he thought.

oOo

Rodney waited in the dark. Distant sounds of gunfire, cries and the clash of swords and axes came from inland. He scanned the waves but could see nothing, the to and fro of the black water looking almost oily in the dim light. A cloud went across the moon and suddenly he could see nothing. But he could hear something; a stealthy creeping coming from behind him. Rodney whirled round, the cloud revealed the face of the moon and the light revealed the face of a raider, almost upon him. Rodney drew his Beretta but the raider launched himself forward and threw himself on Rodney, drawing a knife. The Beretta flew out of Rodney's hand and, seeing the knife coming toward his face both hands flew up to block the attack. Rodney pushed with all his strength, desperately, but the man pushed harder and Rodney felt the knife scraping hard down from his breast bone, further down his chest and then it caught on the edge of his tac vest, the point aiming towards his heart.

Vorra, wading up out of the sea, saw Rodney tackled to the ground, she saw the Beretta fly from his hand and she knew what to do. Drawing up the last of her strength, sapped by the cold and the beating waves, she ran forward and snatched up the Beretta. Without hesitating she took it in both hands, aimed and fired, once, twice, three times, hitting the raider with every shot. He collapsed on top of Rodney and Vorra rushed forward, rolling him off, saying, "It is done, Rodney! The C4 is ready!"

Rodney sat up shakily. He could see the other three swimmers staggering up the beach, sitting down heavily on the sand. He leapt to his feet, patting down the pockets of his vest. Surely, it hadn't flown out of his pocket when he was attacked? No, there! He grasped hold of the remote detonator, flicked up the lever and brought his thumb down onto the button. It was as if the sea convulsed. Great gouts of water sprang up into the air and with them the splintered hulls of the ships. The beach was lit up with red and white flames and orange sparks flew high into the black night. The four targeted ships were devastated, but the others were in danger too, their rigging beginning to smoulder in the heat.

oOo

John heard the crashing roar of the four explosions and saw the red glow light up the night. He stayed, crouching by the thistles, unsure whether he was surrounded by friend or foe. Cries of anger and dismay began to come from all around him and men came rushing down from the farmland to see the devastation that had been wrought on their ships. Many retreated, determined to salvage their only means of escape, some, thinking themselves doomed, turned on the islanders once more to take their revenge.

John cautiously stood and scanned his surroundings. He could see men hauling themselves into the ships preparing to depart; he could still hear the sounds of pitched battle coming from the farms. And he could hear slow, furtive footsteps approaching. An axe came whistling toward his head and John brought his P90 up just in time to deflect it; the blade twisted sideways but the momentum of the axe carried the flat of the blade on and he felt a crashing blow to his temple. John staggered, expecting to feel the bite of the axe, but the two impacts on the axe had sent it spinning out of the raider's hands. The man turned to pick up his weapon and John leapt on to his back, left arm going around his neck, right hand going to his knife, bringing the knife up and plunging it into the raider's throat. The man desperately grabbed hold of John's left hand and forearm and pulled and twisted. As John wrenched back hard on the knife he felt a sickening snap in his wrist, but it was too late for John's attacker; blood gushed from the wound in his neck and he crumpled and fell to the ground, dead.

John stood, chest heaving, the man's blood covering his knife and hand. He looked up, dazed, staring at the flickering flames as the remains of the four ships gradually burnt down to the waterline. He could see men splashing through the shallows, wading out to the remaining ships, climbing aboard. They were leaving, vanquished; the plan had worked. He staggered a little way. The knife fell from suddenly nerveless fingers, pain flared in his wrist and temple. John's vision blurred and faded. He fell, face down on the cold sand and lay still.

oOo

John became aware of a complaining voice cutting into the fog of his mind.

"Ow, careful, that came near my heart, you know!"

Then a calm voice: "Yes, Rodney, and that is why it needs to be cleaned and stitched. And you are making it very difficult for me."

"But it hurts! Ow!"

"It is cut to the bone in places. I am sorry to hurt you. Here, have some more tea," Breesha's patient voice continued.

"Tea doesn't do much good. Anyway, shouldn't he be waking up by now? He's been out for ages."

"It's just as well he didn't wake while I was setting his wrist," Breesha said.

John became aware of his left wrist, lying splinted across his body, feeling bruised and swollen. His head ached too.

"He should be awake now. Ow! Aren't you finished yet?" came Rodney's voice again.

"'M awake," John mumbled. "Too noisy to sleep! What happened?"

"We won, that's what happened! They left with their tails between their legs or at least their axes between their... whatever. Anyway, it worked."

Breesha's face appeared above him. "Yes, it worked," she said. "And now you both need to rest and heal," she looked at John with a raised eyebrow, "again." Breesha stood up. "Unfortunately I must leave you. I have other wounded to attend." She hesitated. "And also some some funerals to prepare."

John looked at her. "How many?"

"Ten," she said quietly, and then met his eyes with a quelling look. "Do not take this upon yourself, John Sheppard. This battle was ours to fight. You gave us the means of winning it, but this land is ours to defend and each one of us is prepared to give our life if necessary." She held his gaze for a moment and then nodded, satisfied, turned and left.

John tentatively raised his arm and felt his head where the axe shaft had hit him. There was a large bump and his head spun as he turned to look at Rodney. Rodney was pale and had a large bandage wrapped round his chest, but he smiled as their eyes met.

"We did it," he said.

"Yeah, we did good, Rodney," John muttered, his words fading out as he drifted into sleep.


	20. Going Home

Had anybody been studying the pre-dawn sky one morning, about four weeks after the raid, they would have noticed a new and unusual star amidst the swirling pattern of asteroids. It did not cross the sky in stately progression according to the rules of the heavens, but rather moved against the slow wheeling of the frost-like scattering until it came to a halt and stayed, hovering over a certain point on the globe. It was the Daedalus, locked in geo-synchronous orbit directly above a tracking implant that was emitting a life sign. One tracking device, one life sign; which was not necessarily an indication that either Colonel Sheppard or Dr McKay had lost their lives in the more than three months they had been stranded, but was worrying nonetheless. 

The tracking device was surrounded by other lifesigns, on a tiny islet just off the coast of the mainland where the Stargate was situated. It was decided that, rather than beam the unsuspecting traveller up immediately, Ronon and Teyla would beam down a little way from the settlement, and hope to find their lost teammates among friends. A sudden flash of white light and they were there, amidst the tough grasses and gentle rise and fall of the dunes, hidden, for now, from any unsuspecting locals. Teyla breathed in and raised her face to the sun, slowly rising over the hills. She smelled the sweetness of the heather, the freshness of the sea; she hoped John and Rodney were safe.

"This way," said Ronon, heading south along the shore. They made their way to the harder sand further down the beach where the walking was easier and ahead of them they saw a steep hill rising and behind that an islet, ringed about with wooden defences. The beach curved around in front of them to form a riverbank, and they saw in the placid waters of the river a cluster of little round boats, each with one occupant. Most of the sailors were children, fishing with handlines off the sides of their boats. One was an adult, who seemed to be paddling in circles rather aimlessly and awkwardly, which could have been because his left wrist was splinted. The man looked up. His aimless demeanour tensed suddenly and a broad grin spread over his face.

"Ronon! Teyla!" he burst out, and began paddling frantically towards them.

"Sheppard!" "John!" they replied, astonished and ran awkwardly down through the soft sand to the river bank.

Frantic paddling never being an effective technique in a coracle, John simply leapt out into the shallow water and, dragging the little boat behind him, splashed and waded his way to the shore. He scrambled out onto the bank, dumped the coracle and paddle down and simply stood, staring at his friends. They stared back, taking in the sight of their team leader, dressed in a rough tunic and leggings, barefoot and unshaven, but other than the splint on his left wrist, looking remarkably happy and healthy. John was so pleased and relieved to see his teammates that when Teyla came towards him, arms outstretched, he mirrored her actions in a wholehearted hug. Teyla breathed in unfamiliar scents of woodsmoke and wet wool and wondered what had happened to her friend and leader to change him from the morose, guilt-ridden shadow that had been stranded months ago. Not to be outdone, Ronon also pulled John into a hug, ruffling his hair and squeezing just a bit too tightly.

"We only detected a tracker on the islet," said Teyla. "We did not expect to find you here!"

"Oh, that'll be Rodney, probably still in bed," said John. "I guess my implant's damaged, or gone or something," he said, rubbing his upper arm.

"What happened? You took some fire?" enquired Ronon.

"I took an axe," said John, shrugging ruefully. "It's all good now, though!"

"And you wrist?" said Teyla.

"Oh, yeah, well that's nearly healed now too. We had a few, er, issues to deal with."

"Looking forward to hearing about that!" said Ronon.

John looked around. "We OK to stay for a bit?" he said. "The Daedalus is up there right? Colonel Caldwell doesn't want to shoot off right away, does he?"

"I will check, but we should have time," said Teyla.

"I'll get one of the kids to bring the bigger boat round," said John. "I don't think we'd all fit in mine!"

Teyla having cleared it with Colonel Caldwell, they soon found themselves being rowed round to the island fort, and, the tower lookout having spotted John with the two strangers, word had gone out and there was a welcoming committee on the landing stage. Teyla climbed onto the wooden jetty with her customary assured agility and found herself face-to-face with a regal-looking lady dressed in green.

"This is Teyla," said John, leaping out of the boat onto the jetty, "and this is Ronon," gestured John as Ronon stepped up behind him. John introduced his friends to Breesha and Coll, Vorra and Kerran, Orrin and Aylish and Breesha greeted them in English, saying, "You are welcomed by the people of the Hill and the Island." She had insisted on being taught an appropriate greeting by Rodney, having come across him one day in a melancholy mood, convinced that the Daedalus could not get through and they would never get home. "Teach me what to say when your friends come for you!" she had said.

There was a disturbance at the back of the group and Rodney pushed his way through, to embrace both Teyla and Ronon in turn, going bright red in the face and grinning broadly, pelting them with questions and comments.

"You made it through the asteroid belt! How did it take so long? Not that I'm not grateful! Did you blast them with the rail guns? Is there a path we can get back through? I bet Zelenka held the whole thing up with doubts and difficulties!"

Teyla flung up her hands, "It is a long story, Rodney. We did our best, but the IOA delayed us."

"What've they got to do with it?" said Rodney, crossly.

"They didn't want to 'waste resources' on us, did they?" said John drily.

"They did not," Teyla replied. "But Radek came up with a way of mining the asteroids for precious minerals while we were in flight, so we were allowed to go ahead."

"Oh!" said Rodney. "Well, good old Zelenka, then. Credit where credit's due and all that!"

The happy group made their way into the fort and to the longhouse where they sat down and ale, bread and cheese were brought. John and Rodney told their friends of their time on the island, their initial shock at the loss of the gate, their struggles to survive and their attack by the raiders. They told of their rescue by the warriors of the Hill and their subsequent decision to help take a stand against the raiders. Ronon was enthusiastic about their use of C4 and Teyla looked at Vorra with admiration when Rodney told of her prowess with his Beretta.

Teyla could tell there was much that went unsaid, however. She saw and enjoyed the relaxed relationship between her friends, she observed that both had suffered during their time on the island, but that their experiences had brought new perspective on their lives, especially to John. He seemed close especially to Breesha; they talked rapidly in her language and she seemed to have no compunction in admonishing him about not only paddling his coracle when his wrist was not yet healed, but getting the bandages wet too. She stripped them off and resplinted the wrist while she was talking, meeting Teyla's eye as if to say, "This one's always in trouble!" Teyla smiled back in agreement.

Teyla heard a voice in her ear and, listening, replied. "We will be ready, Colonel." She turned to John and Rodney. "Half an hour," she said.

"You must leave now," said Breesha. She paused, uncertain. "You have ... a ship?"

"Yeah, erm... actually a starship," said John.

Breesha smiled, amazed. "You travel in a ship that sails the stars. How do you board this ship?"

John looked almost embarrassed. "Well, we kind of disappear in a flash of light," he said.

"A flash of light," Breesha repeated, with determined calm. "Is it safe?"

John shrugged. "So they tell me."

Breesha stood. "We would all like to say our farewells to you both. I will have your belongings gathered and everyone will assemble."

oOo

John and Rodney stood in the central clearing, surrounded by new friends and old, their belongings tied into bundles at their feet. Both still wore their 'Iron Age' clothes, Rodney with his customary twitching at his cape to achieve graceful folds, John still barefoot and scruffy and determined to make the most of it before returning to uniform. Farewells had been said around the gathered circle of Islanders and Hillfolk, with many embraces and much back-slapping, Coll and Orrin had given firm warriors handshakes, Vorra's dignity deserted her and she hugged both men tearfully.

Breesha spoke, as usual for everyone. "You have treated us with honour and we hope we have honoured you in return. There will always be a place for you here."

She turned and spoke to Rodney.

"We thank you, Rodney, for the strengthening of our defenses and our weapons and the skills and methods you have shared with us." The carpenters and smith cheered and several of the warriors roared and shook their pila above their heads.

Breesha turned to John. 

"You have found a measure of peace here, John," she said. "Do not lose it when you return to your world. Retain in your heart the goodwill of those of the Hill and the Island. Remember our homes and our hearths, our heather-clad hills and our shifting seas."

John smiled. "I won't forget," he said.

Teyla spoke into her earpiece. "Standing by, Colonel."

A flash of white light and they were gone. Breesha stood still and for once words failed her. Then she lifted her chin and strode away through the dispersing crowd to begin preparations for her return to the Hillfort. Life would return to normal, duties would be resumed; and Breesha was a woman who thrived on duty.

oOo

John left his quarters on the Daedalus and headed for the commissary. Everything felt cold and sterile. He missed the open air, the wind on his face, the smell of the sea. He missed the funny little coracle and his new friends. He was showered, shaved and uniformed and to all appearances back to the old Lieutenant Colonel Sheppard. But his uniform felt stiff, the strapping the infirmary staff had put on his wrist felt tight. He wanted a real fire and a mug of ale.

He turned the corner into the commissary and stood still. Teyla and Ronon and Rodney sat round a table, together. They turned and looked at him and the welcome and pleasure in their eyes made his heart lift. He would always miss the people of the Hill and the Island, and he would always remember them when the fresh, salty, ocean breeze of Atlantis swept through its Ancient halls and corridors. But his true home was here. With his team.


End file.
